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WYBOR Z BASNICTWI CESKEHO. 



CHESKIAN ANTHOLOGY 

BEING 

A HISTORY OF THE 

Wottital literature xif 3So|)emia, 

WITH TRANSLATED SPECIMENS 



/i^^«f^;^ 






JOHN BOWRING^-. /: ^ 



%Tn^riW 



Prawau wlast gen w srdci nosime, 
Tuto nebze biti ani krasti. 

KOLLAR. 

Out heart— onr country's casket and defence— 
Our country, none shall steal — none tear it thence. 



Hudbu a zpewy Cech milug-. 

LONDON: 
ROWLAND HUNTER, St. PAUL'S CHURCH- YARD. 

1832 



^ i 






.Vs^' 



T. C. Hansard, Printer, Paternoster- rou, London. 



PREFACE. 



« T 

XF, " says W. Wotton, in his ^ Reflections on 
Ancient and Modern Learning,' " Homer and 
Virgil had been Polanders, or High Dutch, they 
would never, in all probability, have thought it 
worth their while to attempt the writing of heroic 
poems." Expressions like these are frequently em- 
ployed by men who scorn all instruction but that 
which flows from classic sources, and such ex- 
pressions are too often only the exhibition of proud 
ignorance and idleness. It is easy to despise what 
we do not comprehend ; and to contemn an un- 
known language and literature is a lighter task 
than to study them. 

To treat with an affectation of disdain the sub- 
jects respecting which we are too vain, or too 
cowardly to confess our want of information, is an 
error as old as it is grievous. Procopius, in speak- 



IV 



ing of the Slavonian language, dismisses it as 
aTexvu)g /3apj3apoc ; and the (jv\a(5r]voi returned 
the compliment by attaching to the words Czud 
(foreigner), or Wlach (gaul), all the associations 
of contempt. 

There are many pharisees in literature as well 
as in religion, wrapped up in the garments of self- 
idolatry, and making their very deficiencies the 
ground of their highest complacency. There are 
many blind wanderers through unbounded fields 
of instruction, who can discover nothing but 
nakedness — nothing but barrenness around them. 
Fertility itself offers no attractions to them — how 
much less can they understand the power of that 
benign principle which makes the waters gush 
forth, fresh, pure, and sparkling, from the very 
rocks of the desert. 

If one purpose more than another has been ever 
present to my mind, in the attempts I have made 
to glean some stalks among the foreign harvests of 
literature, it has been, to extend the circle of be- 
nevolence and of generous affections. I know, for 
instance, how strong, how ancient, the antipathies 
between the Slavonian and teutonic races, and some 



allowance must be made for the feelings of the 
one, whose political independence has been so often 
sacrificed to the domineering influence of the other. 
But I would minister to no hostile sentiments. If 
men were as prone to look for what is good, in 
order to encourage charity, as they are to discover 
what is evil, in order to foster prejudice, the sum 
of evil would be wonderfully diminished, and the 
sum of good prodigiously increased. The place of 
our birth is accidental, and uncertain is the history 
of our ancestry ; but in human improvement and 
happiness we have each and all of us a common 
interest and heritage. From the moment that 
nationality intrudes upon the general weal, it is 
pernicious, and unless closely watched, may become 
profligate. To the emotions and the exertions 
which embrace the widest field of generous thought 
and action, I desire to bring another contribution. 
What is narrow or exclusive in benevolence I 
would widen ; all that is selfish I would fain con- 
trol. The virtues become more intellectual — the 
intellect becomes more virtuous, by sometimes tra- 
velling beyond the little limits of family, and tribe, 
and nation. It is most delightful and most im- 



VI 



proving to feel concerned in the well-being of those 
who are far removed from us — to hail them as 
part of the great family of man. To influence 
their felicity is the lot of but few — to rejoice in it 
and so to share it, might be the privilege of all. 

It would have been very gratifying to me had 
I found leisure enough to have presented a complete 
picture of the whole literature of Bohemia. I 
desired to have spoken of the admirable trans- 
lation of Winaricky, and to have traced the in- 
fluence of others on the Cheskian people. That 
intention must be deferred to another occasion, if, 
indeed, it be not swept away in that whirlwind of 
cares, vicissitudes, disappointments, doubts, and 
vexations ; which leaves in the deeds of our futute 
existence so few traces of the promises of the 
past. 



TO 

FR. LAD. CELAKOWSKY. 

Yes ! song should greet the son of song 
To him whose truth-taught pen imparts 
The simple thoughts of simple hearts^ 
The offerings of such hearts belong ; 
And thou hast waked so sweet a strain^, 
That Albion echoes it again. 

Thy bard,* (Slavonia ! hold him dear. 
As worthy of thy brighter day !) 
Whose spirit shall extend the ray 
That flits across the silent tear. 
Which sadness in its gloom lets fall 
On Slava's melancholy pall : — 



* Kollar, whose view of European Literature is thus inge- 
niously recorded: 

" Rano Slowan ; den Nemci magj ; Anglicko poledne, 
Francauz swacky ; wecez wlach giz , ?i Hispani noc ;" 
Slavonian dawn — german day — english midday — french 
afternoon — walachian evening — Spanish niglit. 



VIU 

Has he not sung— and bardS;, my friend ! 
Are prophets still — that sunlight breaks 
Upon Slavonia ? — lo ! she wakes, 
(May blessings on her path attend !) 
From slumbering ages, wakes at length 
In beauty, dignity, and strength. 



When wandering through Bohemia's land. 

Uncertain where to rove or rest. 

Thou of all guides, the kindest, best. 

Didst lead me with fraternal hand 

Through flowers — (thy country's sweetest dower) 

And teach the name of every flower. 

Here have I wreath' d them, and for whom — 
For whom but thee ? the garland wear : 
I've waved it in our english air, 
And now it breathes a new perfume, 
I send the flow'rets back to thee. 
Odorous with love and sympathy. 



1 



^^ 



POETICAL LITERATURE 



BOHISMZA. 



1 HE earliest and most important commercial 
intercourse between the Slavonians and other 
european nations was carried on in the city of 
JuLiNUM, at the mouth of the Oder, a city of 
whose extent, wealth, and influence, Adam of 
Bremen [Hist, Eccles. c. xii.] speaks with a sort 
of astonishment. Among its local regulations 
he mentions that the christians who traded there 
were not allowed to attempt to proselytise the 
inhabitants, whom he honors with this eulogium, 
that, though they observed the rites of paganism, 
there was no where to be found more courtesy of 
manners, nor a more benignant hospitality.* In 
the ninth century the labours of Method and 

* To the intercourse with this city Dobrowsky attri- 
butes the existence of the words torg and torv, in Swedish 
and danish, for market — it is a word of pure Slavonic 
root. I 

B 



2 



2 



Cyrill led to the conversion of the Slavonians to 
Christianity ; and, in a truly popular spirit, Cyrill 
occupied himself in translating the bible into the 
language of the people, and got severely lectured 
by Pope John VIII. for celebrating the mass in 
an intelligible tongue. " Audimus etiam quod 
missam cantes in barbara (Slavina) lingua. Unde 
jam Uteris per Paulum Episcopum Anconitanum 
tibi directis prohibuimus ne in ea lingua sacra 
missarum solemnia celebrares, sed vel in latina 
vel in grasca, sicut Ecclesia Dei toto terrarum orbe 
diffusa et in omnibus gentibus dilatata cantat."* 
However, on a representation made personally to 
his holiness by Method, he was allowed to sing 
Slavonic masses, and to explain "in auribus 



* The apprehension that heresy would clothe itself 
in Slavonian garments seems to have been constantly 
present to the church of Rome. It would indeed have 
been a dangerous experiment to have allowed polemical 
writings in languages which at Rome could find, pro- 
bably, no interpreters. In the eleventh century, the 
monk of Sazawa talks of " per Sclauonicas literas haeresis 
sectahypocrisisque aperte irretitos acomnino peruersos" — 
and Pope Gregory VII. in 1830, urgently counsels Wra- 
tislaw against the imprudence of employing Slavonians in 
religious services. 



popull," all unintelligible latin words ; but the 
spirit of the romish church soon subdued the 
benevolent purposes of the holy father, and be- 
fore two centuries had passed away the popular 
bishop was denounced as a heretic in the Spalatro 
synod, and all who had celebrated mass, or who 
should venture to celebrate it in the Slavonian 
tongue, were delivered over to undoubted damna- 
tion.* The people appealed to the pope, but 
the pope fancied the Slavonian language to be 
tainted with gothic heresy, and refused to listen. 
A happy thought saved the cyrillian translation. 
St. Jerome was a Slavonian — born, undoubtedly, 
in Dalmatia — to him they attributed the inven- 
tion of the old Slavonian alphabet. The discovery 
was received with rapture — made its way to Rome 
— fell in with the prejudices of the time, and 
papal authority proclaimed the Slavonian liturgy 
to be the work of the Slavonian saint. 

* On this occasion they confounded " Sclavonica 
lingua" and " Gothica litera,'' deeming them identical. 
A foreigner was a goth — a goth an arian — an arian an 
undoubted child of perdition — and thus passion whetted 
its weapons upon ignorance, and attacked fiercely and 
blindly whatever it mistrusted. 
b2 



Slavonian literature has no earlier records than 
this— but Bohemia was less influenced by it than 
the other Slavonic nations. In the year 1080, 
king Wratislaw made an urgent appeal to Gregory 
VII., in order to obtain permission to employ the 
Slavonian ritual, but his holiness sharply cen- 
sured his " vain temerity J" 

The Bohemian language (Cesky Gazyk) may 
be traced up to the sixth century, and is one of 
the southern branches of the great Slavonian stem. 
Its dialects are the moravian, the silesian, and 
the slowakian as spoken in upper Hungary. 
Previously to the introduction of Christianity, it 
can only be tracked through the few and meagre 
latin chronicles which treat of Bohemia, and re- 
cord merely the names of Slavonian persons and 
places. In the year 845, fourteen bohemian 
princes were baptized, and soon after Boriwoy 
proclaimed Christianity from the throne as the 
established religion. Wenceslaw introduced from 
Saxony and Swabia a number of german priests, 
through whom the bohemian was greatly enriched, 
by words of both latin and teutonic origin, and 
by the creation of numerous conjugates out of 



Slavonic roots. The oldest perfect specimen that 
exists of the bohemian language is a hymn written 
by Adalbert* the second bishop of Prague in 
the tenth century as follows : 



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* Dobrowsky thinks it likely that this hymn is only a 
translation of one heard in Hungary, and introduced into 



I 



This composition is often referred to in the 
thirteenth century as being popular among the 
Bohemians. In the battle in which Ottokar sub- 
dued Bela in 1260, the bohemians are said to 
have frightened the hungarian horses by shouting 
this song. " Bohemi, valido in cffilum clamore 
excitato, canentes hymnura a S. Adalberto editum, 
quod populus singulis diebus dominicis et aliis 
festivitatibus ad processionem cantat :" and again, 
when Wenceslaw was solemnly received in the 
high church in 1249, the chronicler says : 
" Populo ac nobilibus terra qui tunc aderant 
Hospodin pomiluy ny resonantibus. 

The fragments of ancient bohemian poetry 
which remain, are but the planks of a ship that 
has been long ago wrecked on the ocean of national 
vicissitude — but many of these have an historical 
interest even independent of their intrinsic merits. 
The earliest and most valuable remains are in the 
Kralodworsky MSS., and in the collection made 
by Hanka in four volumes, entitled Starobyla 

Bohemia by Adalbert. Hajek says, that Adalbert brought 
it from Rome ready written on parchment, and with sundry 
explanatory notes attached, 



Skladanie. The Saud Libusin is the oldest 
remnant of bohemian verse. It is published in 
the third part of Krok.^ It is a simple nar- 
rative poem, which distinguishes it from the 
epic character of many of the longer contem- 
poraneous pieces. But its genuineness has been 
strongly disputed. Hanka, Celakowsky, and the 
more enthusiastic poets have contended for its 
antiquity ; but it would not be fair to conceal what 
the great Slavonian scholar, Dobrowsky, writes to 
me on the subject of this and other disputed com- 
positions of the period. " His te raonitum velim, 
nefortasse aliqua vertas quae certe jam supposititia 
censentur ; conjectaaquibusdam qui nimio patriae 
seu maternas linguae amore, hsec obtrudere incautis 
voluere. Talia sunt Elegia amantis sub Wyss- 
chrado arce ad fluvium Wltavam superiore, quam 
ego ipse, antequam scripturam diligentius exami- 
narem^historiae linguae Bohemicae, p. 109 inserui et 
exposui. Novi jam auctorem quem tibi nominare 
possem. Poema hoc abruptum circa annum 1816 
aut 1817 confectum membranae veteri atramento 
satis recenti adscriptum mihi oblatum me ipsum 
^ P. 50 — See also Horraayer's Vienna Archives for 1826. 



8 

fefellit. Alterum nimirum Libussa judicium, ex 
phrasibus poematis Russici de Igore, et antiquis 
formulis poematum MSti Kralodworskiani com- 
pilatum circa ann. 1818 iion nisi in Krokio'^ 
expositum reperies, qui Tibi fortasse transmissus 
est. Impostoris hujus, auctorem sic appello,! 
fraudem detexi primo quasi intuitu. Cum autem 
Kakovecki Polonus, cui missus foetus hie fuerat, 
libro Prawda Ruska, eum exhibeat, opus fuit in 
Annalibus Vindobonensibus pluribus argumentis 
authentiam ejus irapugnare. Zelotes Bohemici, 
non contenti poematibus Seculi xiii. in MSto 
Auboregensi, sicdicto a loco inventionis, maluerunt 
antiquiora effingere ad conjungendos Germanos 
qui antiquioribus gloriantur. * * Ea omnia, 
quae in MSto Auboregensi leguntur poematia, 
sine omni dubio genuina sunt, quamquam et haec 
Zelotes Bohemici antiquiora esse putent saltem 
aliqua, quam sana crisis admittere possit." 

In justice to the opinions of those who differ 

* Krok is a literary Bohemian periodical, edited by 
Dr. J. S.. Prest, of Prague, and frequently containing 
interesting and erudite dissertations on the language and 
writings of Bohemia. 



9 



from Dobrowsky, I am bound to add that the 
MS. of Libusa exists in the museum at Prague ; 
that Dobrowsky is accused of not having fairly 
judged it, because it interfered with one of his 
historical speculations, which denies the existence 
of a renowned leader named Cech, from whom the 
cechian (bohemian) nation received its designa- 
tion. They state that the antiquity of the MS. 
has been admitted by almost every antiquary 
who has examined it — that no modernism of any 
sort has been detected in the language or the style 
— in a word, that the internal evidence of its 
genuineness is indisputable. Between such au- 
thorities I dare not attempt to decide ; I give a 
translation of one of these disputed poems. 

Ha ty nasse slunce. 

Our Sun ! our protection. 
Thou Vyssegrad fortress. 
Thou, haughty and daring. 
Above the steeps rising ; 
Upon the rocks standing 
Our enemies' terror — 

B 5 



10 

Beneath thee the waters 
AVe rapidly flowing. 
The vehement Uhltav 
His stream urges onward : 
And there on the borders 
Of crystal Uhltava, 
The foliage o'erhanging, 
Spreads out its dark shadows ; 
The nightingale lonely 
Sings gratulant music. 
Or sorrowful music. 
As joy or as sorrow 
Has place in her bosom — 
O were I the songster 
Deep, deep in the forest 
My wings should convey me. 
To roam with my lov'd one 
Late, late in the evening. 
When Love is inspiring 
All life, all creation,* 



Tseliky- zinok — all life — omnis creatura. 



11 

And passionate longings 

Thro' nature are throbbing— 

I long, hapless mortal. 

For thee, thou divine one ; 

O pity my sorrow !* 
This poem was (according to Dobrowsky, who 
at one period advocated its authenticity) found by 
Linda on a parchment of not later date than 
1310. There is some obscurity in the phrase syela 
hurasti/a in line 13. Dobrowsky suggests that 
it should be sjla chwrasti " many shrubs," and 
Celakowsky translates it erne menge gebiisches. 
There is a version of this poem in german by 
Gothe. 

But the most remarkable remnant of antiquity 
existing in the bohemian tongue, is a collection of 
old poetry, to which I have already referred, pub- 
lished by Hanka in 1819, under the title Rukopis 

* This poem is given in the Starobyla Skladanie. 
i. 200. There are a few errors in that copy. Line 
5, instead of na priekre stogiessi, should be na skaedtje 
stogiessi; line 6, for po strak read posirack ; line 
14, for po hladecek read pochla dcek ; line 27^ fo 
snahzenstuiem read snahzenstviem. 



12 

Krdlodworsky* He gives the ancient text, and 
a modern rendering on the opposite side of the 
page. Of these interesting fragments W. Swohoda 
published a close and well-written version at 
Prague in the same year. These poems, written 
on parchment, were discovered in a chamber 
belonging to the church of Kralodworsky (K6~ 
niginhof ) amidst a number of worthless documents. 
The MS. has been decided by competent judges 
to have been written at the end of the thirteenth 
century, though some of the poems are probably 
considerably older. They appear to have belonged 
to a far more extensive collection, of which they 
formed the 26th, 27th, and 28th chapters. 
Dobrowsky, in his history of the bohemian 
tongue and literature, lauds the facility of 
style, the purity and correctness of the language, 
the grace, and the strength of these valuable 
records. As a specimen of the old bohemian 
language, and of the changes it has undergone 
during six centuries, I give the shortest of the 
poems with Hanka's modernised version. 

* i, e. Manuscripts of the Queen^s court. 



13 



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14 



Translation. 

On the field an oak-tree rises ; 
On the oak-tree sits a cuckoo. 
And he mourneth, he complaineth. 
That the spring endures not always. 
What should gild the wheat in harvest. 
If the spring endured for ever ? 
How should apples in the garden 
Ripen, were it always summer ? 
How should wheat-sheaf be upgather'd 
If there were no time but autumn : 
Luckless were the maiden's portion. 
If forefated to be lonely. 

This is the song of a young woman, intended 
fancifully to convey the assurance that the flight 
of the seasons would bring a lover to her. 

As specimens of this early poetry I give two of 
the historical ballads, and the whole of the lyrical 
pieces which have been preserved in this collection. 
The remarkable affinity both in measure and 
manner between these and the Spanish ballads 



15 



during the moorish epoch will be very obvious 
at a glance. 

Benesh Hermanow ; or, the Defeat of the 
Saxons. 



Aiti slunce aisluneczko. 

O thou sun ! thou lovely sun — 

Wherefore look so gloomy ? 

Wherefore look so gloomy down 

On oppress'd bohemians ? 

Tell us where our prince is gone, 

Tell us where our hosts are staying ; 

He to Otto's court is fled. 

Orphan d country ! who shall save thee ? 

Rescue thee from ruin's grasp ? 

Look ! the foeman's hosts are coming. 

Evil saxons — germans they ; 

What a line of long battalions 

Rushing down the mountain-way. 

Rushing down upon our vallies. 

Wretched people ! ye must give. 



16 

Ye must give your gold and silver, 

Give them all that je possess ; 

But your huts, your cottage-dwellings 

Their marauding hosts will burn : 

Ah ! they stole our gold and silver. 

Burnt and ravaged all our dwellings. 

Drove our hapless troops away. 

And are marching now on Trosky. 

Mourn not, mourn not, coward peasant ! 

Soon the grass will grow again. 

Which the foeman's heel hath trodden. 

Green upon Bohemia's plain. 

From these plains bright flowers we'll gather, 

Garlands for our heroes wreathe : 

Look ! the vernal seed is burstinsr, 

Happy change will wait us soon. 

Lo ! our fate already changes — 

Look ! for Benesh Hermanow 

Calls the people all to counsel : 

They shall drive the Saxons off. 

Now the stream of people rushes 

Through the forest and the field. 



17 

From the rugged rocky fortress. 
Flails for weapons, lo ! they bear. 
And they pour upon the foemen. 
Benesh, Benesh is the first ; 
Full of courage and of fury. 
All advance — they cry '^^ revenge ! 
Vengeance on our land-destroyers ! 
Vengeance on the saxon race \" 
Vengeance bursts from either army. 
Vengeance and the fiercest rage ; 
Vengeance glows in every bosom. 
Vengeance reddens every eye. 
Each the other wildly threatening, 
Raging — mingling each with each. 
Clubs o'er rival clubs are towering. 
Spears are rising over spears — 
And they crash 'gainst one another 
As if warlike forests crashed— 
As the lightning of heaven's thunder 
Was the lightning of their swords. 
Fearful sounds and frightful voices 
Scared the deer into the w^oods. 



18 

Scared the birds into the heavens ; 

Echoes rising from the vales. 

To the third ridge of the mountains 

From their rocky walls resounded. 

Smiting clubS;, and sabres clashing 

Like the awful voice of death. 

Thus immoveable the armies. 

Thus unconquer'd both they stood. 

And their feet were firmly rooted, 

Firmly rooted in the ground. 

Benesh climb'd a rocky mountain. 

Swung his sword towards the right. 

There the army's strength seem'd weakest ; 

Swung his sword towards the left. 

There the army's strength was strongest ; 

There — up to the riven rocks. 

From these rocks they hurl'd huge fragments, 

Hurl'd huge fragments on the foe. 

Hark ! the battle is rekindled. 

Hark ! from hill to plain — they groan — 

Ha ! they groan — they fly — the german — 

Ha ! they fall — the battle's won." — p. 6-14. 



19 

The battle which this ballad records was fought 
in 1281, and the internal marks of antiquity show 
that this poem cannot be of a much later date. 

The next piece is intitled Jaroslaw, and is a 
sort of historico-poetical chronicle of the great 
combat between the Christians and the Tatars, 
which took place in the 13th century. 



Zuiestuiu uara poiuiest ueleslaunu. 

I WILL tell a tale of fame and glory. 
Tale of mighty strife and fiercest battle : 
Listen now — collect your scatter'd senses ; 
Listen now — and hear the wond'rous story. 
In the land where Olmiitz rises proudly. 
Towers a mountain — not a high nor bold one- 
But the unaspiring hill, Hostaynow, 
With its w^ond'rous image of God's mother. 
Long our land a quiet peace enjoying, 
Prosper'd in the calm of wealth and comfort. 
But a storm was gathering in the orient. 
All about the Tatar monarch's daughter: 



20 

For her pearls and gold and treasures, christians. 
Christians, have been massacring each other. 

Kublay's beauteous daughter, fair as Luna, 
She had heard of western lands and people. 
Heard of lands, and serfs who dwelt upon them ; 
She was fain to see those foreign people. 
So she soon prepared her for the journey. 
Ten young men she suramon'd to escort her. 
And ten maidens for her person's service : 
Richly for her journey she provided. 
And, all mounting on the swiftest coursers. 
They departed tow'rds the western sun-set. 
As they passed thro' dark and dreary forests. 
Gloriously in brightness and in beauty. 
Shone the daughter of the tatar monarch. 
She was covered o'er with golden garments — 
All but neck and bosom — rich and gorgeous 
Stones and pearls shone splendently around her. 

So she was a marvel to the germans. 
And they coveted her costly treasures ; 



21 

Track'd her footsteps as she journey 'd forwards. 
Overtook her in the darksome forest — 
Murder'd her — and all her treasures plunder'd. 

When the Khan of Tatary, Kuhlya, heard it — 
When he heard the fate of his belov'd one — 
From his wide-spread kingdom he assembled 
Armies — and he onward led his armies 
Towards the setting of the sun at even. 
When the monarchs of the western nations 
Learnt the Tatar Khan was marching thither — 
Marching 'gainst their thickly-peopl'd countries — 
They agreed that each should help the other. 
So they all assembled mighty armies. 
Armies ready for the fierce encounter. 
Led them forth upon the open country. 
There encamp'd — and waited for the tatars. 

KuBLAY calls around him his enchanters. 
Sorcerers and magicians, seers and sages ; 
Bids them prophesy — and tell the issue 
Of the struggle to the tatar emp'ror. 
So the sorcerers, and the seers, and sages, "^.^ 



-:» 






_■ 22 

And magicians met, and the enchanters ; 

And inscribed on earth two separate circles. 

Laid a sable bar within the circles. 

Which they portioned in two equal pieces ; 

And on one inscribed the name of ' Kublay/ 

On the other wrote ^ the german princes.' 

Then they sang an ancient incantation. 

And the bars began to move in combat — 

And the bar of Kublay swiftly triumph'd. 

Then with joyous sounds the tatars shouted. 

Every tatar sprung upon his war-horse. 

And the battle mandate soon was issued. 

All that pass'd was hidden from the christians ; 

On the heathen-troops they threw them boldly. 

To the prowess of their army trusting — 

So began the raging of the battle. 

Arrows shower'd as thick as stormy hail-drops. 

Spears smote spears as loud as is the thunder — 

Swords flashed brightly as the flashy lightning. 

And the armies rush'd on one another. 

Fill'd with freshen'd strength and freshen'd courage 

Now the christians gain'd upon the tatars. 



23 

And they soon had won a glorious triumph — 

But the heathen sorcerers hurried forward. 

Bearing in their hands the bar of magic — 

Ee-awaken'd valor fill'd the tatars. 

And they rush'd infuriate on the christians. 

And the christians fled ; anon, the heathen 

Sprang like raging beasts among the flying — 

Shields lay here — here decorated helmets — 

Here a horse dragg'd down his knightly rider — 

There 'neath tatar hoofs, a knight was lying — 

Not to conquer — no ! — to perish only — 

There another cried on God's good mercy. 

So the tatars triumph' d and grew mighty. 

Levies laid, and tribute on the people ; 

And possess'd them of two christian kingdoms. 

Ancient Kiev and the white Novgorod. 

O'er the land the mournful story widen'd. 

And the people gather'd troops to battle ; 

Four strong armies speedily assembled 

To revive the death-fight with the tatars. 

Then the tatars round their right-flank crowded. 

Like the black'ning thunder-clouds when gath'ring. 



24 

All the fruits of earth to smite and scatter — 
Far you heard the huz of tatars — swarming— 
Then the hungarian squadrons all assembled 
And attacked the tatars — but the struggle. 
Spite of all their art, of all tlieir valor — 
Spite of all their manliness availed not ; 
On their ranks the tatars fiercely press'd theni. 
Broke their ranks — and all their valiant army 
Was dispers'd — and waste and desolation 
All the land despoiPd. And hope deserted 
All the christians — sorrow and dejection 
Now possessed their sinking souls as never ; 
And to God they pray'd in bitter anguish. 
To relieve them from the tatar's fury. 
'' Lord ! arouse thee — in thy terror rouse thee- 
Save us, save us. Lord ! or else w^e perish : 
Save us from this terrible oppression ! 
They w^ould bring our spirits to perdition — 
They, a troop of wolves, our folds surrounding.' 
So one fight was lost, and so another. 
And the tatars hous'd themselves in Poland ; 
Nearer, nearer drew- they, all-destroying, 



25 

Ravaging, they came, even to Olomutz— * 

Bitter misery press'd upon the people. 

Nought was shelter'd from the heathen's fury. 

One day and the next was battle raging. 

And on neither victory had descended. 

Ah ! the tatars wax them strong and stronger. 

As the autumnal shades at ev'ning; gather — 

And, amidst the gath'ring tatar forces, 

Lo ! the christians vibrate like a sea-boat ! 

And they hasten to that sacred mountain 

Where is thron'd the wonder-working virgin. 

" Rouse ye ! brothers ! rouse ye !" — cried Weneslaw, 

" With your swords the silver target smiting. 

O'er your heads the glorious banners waving." 

Thus encourag'd rush'd they on the tatars, 

Thickly crowded — in compactest body ; 

As if fire upon the ground were scatter'd. 

So they pour'd upon the tatar forces ; 

Up the holy hill, and down its borders. 



Olmutz 
C 



26 

Up the hill, and to its wood-crown d summit. 
So in gather'd ranks the warriors crowded. 
At the foot — a very wedge of courage. 
Right and left, protected by their bucklers. 
On their shoulders, lo ! they bear their lances. 
Rear behind the van, and third next second, 
And the arrows from the hills are raining. 
Now the darksome night the earth hath mantled. 
Mantled earth — and heavy clouds the heavens ; 
And on christians and on tatars closes 
l^yes that burn with passion and with fury ; 
Walls and trenches all around the mountain, 
Raise and sink the christians in the darkness. 
But the morning in the orient wakens. 
Wakes the forces peopling all the mountain ; 
Fearful is the crowd around the mountain. 
Numerous more than eye can see — so distant ! 
Christian chiefs above the rest are towering 
O'er the heights, up to the Khan's pavillion ! 



So the masses for the fray are portioned, 
All to the appointed stations rushing ; 



27 

Upwards press they to the mountain-summit, 
And with fearful shouts, which hills and vallies 
With re-echoing voices loud repeated ; 
On the walls the christian hosts are gathered. 
And God's mother fills their souls with valor ; 
So they draw their arrows to their shoulder — 
So they wave aloft their swords — the tatars 
Must give way — the tatars must be vanquished. 

Then what rage possess'd the savage tatars ; 
From his eyes the Khan roll'd clouds of darkness— 
In three legions he his troops divided — 
In three legions, lo ! they storm'd the mountain ; 
Twenty christians fell beneath the tatar — 
All the twenty fell their posts maintaining, 
And beneath the walls their bodies weltered. 
Then the tatars storm'd the walls — loud shouting, 
As if thunder-storms were shaking heaven : 
So they rush'd upon the christians' ramparts. 
From the walls they hurl'd their brave defenders, 
Crush'd them even like worms, and left them scatter'd 
On the open field — and long and bloody, 
c 2 



28 

Long and furious was the fierce encounter^ 
Till the night upon their heads descended. 



God of mercy ! God ! the brave Weneslaw, 
Brave Weneslaw by an arrow wounded 
From the rampart falls ! — Heart-breaking sorrow ! 
Dreadful thirst burns up the christians' bowels, 
With parch'd palate, ah ! they lick the dew-drops 
From the grass — and now the quiet evening 
Comes — and chilling night the evening follows. 
And the night slow-dawns into the morning — 
In the tatar camp is solemn silence. 
And the day awakes, and mid-day scorches. 
And all, agonized with thirst, the christians 
Sink upon the face of earth exhausted — 
Choked, they open their dry lips, and hoarsely 
Pour a prayer to God's most holy mother ; 
Up to her they turn their feeble eyelids. 
Up to her their weary arms outstretching. 
Plaints of anguish pour they out to heaven : 
'^ Ah ! we can endure this thirst no longer. 
With a thirst like this we cannot combat ; 



29 

He who loves his life, his weal — had better 

Seek for raercy^ even among the tatars !" 

Thus said many — thus repeated many — 

" Better by the sword to die, far better 

Than of thirst — well quench our thirst in bondage, , „ , ^ 

/■in- J *" j 

Track my steps who think so" — thus cried Weston,* / ^■^^W0'^%, / 

" Track my steps who die of thirst !" Uprising 

With a bull's own prowess, see Wratislaw 

Seize on Weston, and in fiercest language 

Shouting — " Traitor ! coward ! christians' scandal ! 

Wilt thou rush upon thy soul's damnation ? 

Virtue only seeks relief from heaven. 

Not from bondage 'neath the savage tatars ; 

Run not, brethren ! run not to perdition — 

Ye have passed the worst — the fiercest sunshine — 

God has help'd us thro' the heat of noon-tide — 

God has mercy for his faithful servants — 

Shame! O shame! such words should e'er find utterance! 

But if ye will bear the name of heroes. 



*.It is very remarkable that an English name should occur 
in this ancient and spirited ballad. 



30 

Rather than for thirst our mount surrender. 

Let us die the death that God provides us — 

If we yield us to the tatars' sabres. 

Basely, vilely — we commit self-murder. 

Slavery's yoke is God's abomination, 

'Tis a sin accurs'd to bend to bondage — 

Track my steps — my steps — ye men, whose courage 

Will escort me to the virgin's altar." 

So they crowded round, and sought the chapel — 
" Lord ! arouse thee in thy awful terrors ! 
Lord ! restore their country to thy people ; 
Lord ! revive us from our wretched sorrows ! 
Hear our voices calling on thee loudly — 
For our foes surround us — they surround us — 
Save us from the snare-pits of the heathen : 
Give us comfort, father ! give refreshment — 
Long and loud shall be thy people's praises ; 
Chase the foes that waste our hapless country. 
And extirpate them, O God ! for ever !" 
Look ! a cloud upon the sultry heaven — 
Hark ! the waking wind — the rolling thunder-— 



31 

Darkness — darkness all the sky is mantling ; 
Lightning flashes fiercely 'midst the tatars, 
And a copious rain fills every fountain. 

Then the storm pass'd over — and the v^^arriors 
Once again assembled — every district 
Sent its levies — and beneath their banners 
All the gathering tribes advanc'd on Olmiitz ; 
By their sides three mighty swords were hanging; 
Quivers full of arrows rustl'd loudly ; 
On their heads they bore their polish'd helmets. 
And beneath them leap'd their proud war-horses. 
There were the awakening sounds of trumpets^ 
Noise of kettle drums and martial music. 
So one army rush'd upon the other — 
Then like clouds the moving dust ascended. 
And the fight was fiercer than the former. 
Noise — confusion — swords together clashing — 
Striking in the air of poison d arrows. 
Crash of spears, and whiz of many missiles — 
Then was hewing down, and then was stabbing. 
Mournful wailings then, and loud rejoicings — 



3^ 

Blood in streams flow'd forth like mountain-torrents. 

Corpses lay as trees when fell'd in forests. 

Here a warrior's head that's cleft insunder, 

There a warrior's trunk, both arms dissever'd. 

There another flung from off his war-horse. 

Here, one stripp'd, upon his foeman lying 

As a storm-rent tree upon the mountain ; 

Here, a sword to heft in bosom buried. 

There, a tatar hath an ear off-smitten. 

And what shoutings then and groans and curses ! 

Yet again the christians are retreating. 

Yet again the tatar-hosts pursuing : 

But the eagle, Jaroslaw, approaches ; 

Harden'd steel is on the strongest bosom ; 

Under it is wisdom's ready courage, 

'Neath his helm the lynx-eyed glance of hero. 

Glanced with all the glow of valor beaming — 

Lo ! he storms, as storms the hungry lion. 

When he sees his destin'd prey approaching, 

Or when wounded turns on his pursuer. 

So Jaroslaw turn'd upon the tatars — 

Like a hail-storm follow the bohemians — 



33 

And he sprung upon the son of Kublay — 
What a fearful, what a bloody struggle ! 
Couching spear 'gainst spear — then eager thrusting, 
Each, as if to crush in dust the other. 
Then Jaroslaw on his valiant war-horse, 
Bath'd in blood, turn'd on the son of Kublay, 
And with dextrous push, his lance he planted 
In his shoulder till it reached his haunches. 
Lifeless on the grass he fell — his quiver 
Made a hollow sound which told his story : 
Then dismay 'd they fled, the savage tatars. 
Threw away their long-long pikes, and hurried- 
Hurried where they might, in search of safety ; 
Hurried where the sun just starts at morning. 
So was Hana freed from tatar-terrors. 

Biehase ielen pohorach. 

A STAG o'er forest, field, and hill, 
Wander'd at his capricious will. 
Now up, now down the mountain side. 
And shook his branching antlers wide, 

c 5 



34 

And with his branching antlers he 

Forced shrub and tree, 

Well pleased to bound 

With eager footsteps o'er the ground. 

A YOUTH speeds o'er the mountain's top, 
Nor in the valley does he stop ; 
But with his battle weapons thrown 
Across his shoulders, hastens on, 
And with those weapons sharp and strong. 
Breaks through the foeman's throng. 

Alas ! that youth no mountain pass'd ;* 
A foe — a fierce and savage foe 
His frown of darkness round him cast. 
Smote that poor wanderer low 
With battle-axe upon his breast : 
A voice of mourning filled the groves — 

* This is the universal style of the old Slavonian poetry. 
" It is the snow on the hills — jVo ! it is no snow on the hills 
It is the tent of Hassan." 

*' Look at the oak tree upon the plain — how green and strong— 
O no ! it is no oak tree — it is a young and mighty warrior." 



35 

And his freed spirit hasten'd to its rest. 

Thro' his fair neck life's franchis'd spirit roves. 

Thro' his fair neck and thro' his lovely lips. 

Lo ! there he lies — the w^arm blood flies 

After his spirit, — but that spirit's fled. 

And in the sanguine stream the green grass dips ; 

The cold earth drinks that rivulet of red. 

Sadness o'erpower'd the heart of every maid ; 

The youth upon the frigid turf lay dead, 

And o'er him grew an oak, whose branches spread 

Widely around and proudly overhead. 

The wild deer with his antlers high 
Oft the tall oak tree hastened by. 
And stretch'd his graceful neck the leaves anioui: : 
Of sparrow-hawks a throng 
Came from the neighbouring woods tt> bide 
Upon that oak, and screaming cried — 
" The youth beneath a foeman's fury fell," 
And all the maidens wept, the tale remembering well 



36 



Pleic dieua konopie^ 

Lo ! a maid the hemp is weeding 

In her master's garden-ground. 

And a lark, towards her speeding. 

Sings, " Why look so sadly round ?" 

" Well may I be sad," she said, 

" Well be sad, thou gentle lark ! 

They my lover have convey'd 

To yon castle-dungeon dark : 

Had I but a pen to write — 

Some sweet words of love I'd send him — 

Thou, kind lark ! shouldst take thy flight. 

And with my kind thoughts attend him. 

But I have no pen to treat him 

With my love — so gentle bird ! 

With thy softest music greet him. 

Music's most consoling word/' 



Vieie uietrsieczek. 

The light breeze is blowing 
Around the king's forest : 
The maiden is hasting. 
She hastes to the stream ; 
She scoops with her bucket 
The fresh flowing waters : 
But look ! to the maiden 
The stream bears a nosegay, 
A nosegay of fragrance. 
Of violets and roses^ — 
The maiden outstretches 
Her hand to obtain it : 
She falls— Ah ! she falls in 
The cold running water. 
O ! had I but known it. 
Thou beautiful nosegay ! 
But known on the borders 
Who planted thy beauties. 
In faith, I would give him 
A ring of pure gold ! 



38 

O had I but known it. 
Thou beautiful nosegay ! 
But known who collected 
Thy beauties and bound them. 
In faith I would give him 
The pin of my hair ! 
O had I but known it. 
Thou beautiful nosegay ! 
But known who first flung thee 
To swim on the streamlet. 
In truth I would give him 
The wreath on my head. 

Ide mamila naiabodi. 

To gather scarlet strawberries ^ ^/ 

My gentle maiden sought the grove. 

And lo ! a cruel bramble tore 

The maiden's snowy foot — 

Ah ! luckless maid ! my gentle love 

Can wander in the grove no more : — 

O why — O why, perfidious thorn. 

Hast thou my gentle maiden torn ? 



39 

I'll tear thee from thy parent root^ 
And fling thee to the winds to boot. 

Come ! come ! my lov'd one to the shade 
Beneath the o'erhanging pine — 
I'll hasten o'er the sunny glade 
On yon white steed of mine : — 
My steed shall wander at his ease. 
Among the meadows and the trees. 
But come my lov'd one ! come with me. 
Come, let us seek the shady plain : 
Poor girl ! — she came — and tenderly 
Breath'd this unconscious strain : 
'' O hapless maid ! to thee — to thee 
Hard will thy mother's language be — 
Said she not oft — Beware of men — 
And oft repeated it again ? 
Yet why beware — if men there are 
Generous and noble — why beware ?" 

I FLEW across the flow^ery mead, 
I flew, upon my snowy steed. 



40 

Dismounted — and my steed I tied 
With silver curblets to a tree — 

Then pressed the maiden to my side, 
And kiss'd her, how transportedly ! 
And soon the lovely one forgot 
Her wounded foot — our mutual kisses. 
Till the sun sunk, exhausted not — 
And then she whisper'd — " Angel ! this is 
The vesper hour — 'tis time, indeed. 
To wend us homewards," — Then I leapt 
With my sweet maiden on my steed. 
And bore her to my home. 

Achti rose, trasna rose ! 

O THOU rose — thou rose so lovely. 
Why so early didst thou blow ? 
Why when blown, so swiftly blighted. 
Swiftly blighted — swiftly faded. 
Faded — dying — perish'd too : 
Long I sat — I sat at evening 



41 

Till I heard the cock's loud crow, 

Slumber's weariness o'ercame me 

As the splinters wasted low;* 

And I dreamt : — I dreamt I saw 

One who brought to me — poor maiden ! 

One who with his right hand brought 

Golden ring to grace my finger. 

King with precious gems enwrought — 

Where are now those gems ?^I know not- 

And that youth — I vainly sought. 

Och wi lesi tmani lesi. 

O YE forests ! darksome forests. 

Forests deep of Miletin ; 
Tell me why in summer — winter — 

Why are ye for ever green ? 
Fain would I, my tears subduing. 

Cleanse my heart of griefs and cares. 



* Wsie drsiezhi luczki sczecli — laueka (modern diminutive 
of laiic, a splinter or chip of pine-wood used instead of candles 
in the north of Europe. 



42 

Yetj if tears bring consolation, 

Why should I subdue my tears ? 
Where's my father — -where's my father ? 

Sleeping 'neath the church -yard stone : 
Where my mother — tender mother ? 

Over her the grass has grown — 
I no brother have — nor sister — 

And my lover — he is gone ! 

Celakowsky supposes that the remainder of these 
MSS. were destroyed by the Hussites during the 
siege of Kralodworsky. In the Isvjestija Ros- 
siuskoi Akademii Mr. Shiskov has published 
translations of this interesting collection. 

Belonging to the 13th century are various reli- 
gious fragments^ and especially a rhymed legend 
of the twelve apostles ; a letter from heaven, a 
translation of the psalter, and with the date of 
1309, is a curious Bohemarius, or latin and bo- 
hemian vocabulary in hexameter verses, probably 
prepared by some ecclesiastic for the use of schools. 
x\s a philological reference, this is a valuable frag- 
ment, and a specimen will not be misplaced. 



^ ^ 43 

Mensis sit myessiecz, tibi sit ebdomada tyden, 
Meridies poleduye, vesper weczer, mane rano, 
Diluculum swytanye, tibi sit crepusculum sumrak. 

A translation of the new testament was made 
in 1311 by Balthasar of Tettan. What has be- 
come of this interesting work is not known — it 
was in the hands of the Kynsky family, and was 
for a month in the keeping of Dobner, who de- 
scribed it to Dobrowsky. The following hymn 
written by Wenceslaw has been very frequently 
reprinted.* 

King Waclaw's song of love. 



Zwelikych dobrodruzstwj. 



Love calls me from my deeds of fame 
To his own sweeter service — I 
Summon each cherish'd maiden's name. 
And ask — to which my soul should fly, 

* See Script. Rer. Bohem. II. Prague, 1784. 



44 

And seek with her a brighter glory 
Than ever fiU'd the page of story. 

But ill my service is repaid. 
For Love has planted in my breast 
A pang that will not give me rest — 
Nor heeds the mischief he has made. 

My senses are by passion driven. 
On to the very gates of heaven ; 
Delight is handmaid to desire. 
My eyes are bright with sacred fire 
Whose rays out-pour'd upon my heart 
A sense of blessedness impart. 

And then love strengthens while it grows. 
And transport's fountain overflows, 
My heart is like a stream of pleasure 
That knows no ebb and knows no measure. 
Which love pours out in eager joy — 
Love — source of rapture — and annoy — . 
To which I turn me fond and true. 
As opening roses to the dew. 



45 

And then thy honied lips I kiss^ 

O the unutterable bliss ! 

No thought^ no words^ can compass this. 

But sorrows hurry love away. 
And love retires — but sorrows stay — 
Wilt thou forgive me, Nina ! say. 
If to my bosom's warmth I press 
Thy bright, sweet, dawning loveliness. 
Yet still with chaste desire — for thou 
^ To no licentious will would'st bow. 

This composition will be found in the 5th 
Volume of Hanka's Starobi/Id Skladanie. A 
similar poem exists in Germany, and it is a dis- 
puted question whether the teutonic or the 
Slavonian is a translation of the other. 

A great number of religious poems, partaking 
of the character of the later monkish productions 
of the same period, have been saved from oblivion; 
though, except as philological curiosities, they 
have no interest and deserve no attention. The 
bohemian language was currently employed for 



46 

the purposes of poetry, and at the coronation of 
John, in 131 1, the Abbe Peter von Konigsaal 
says, in a passage quoted by Dobrowsky,* 

ExtoUens cantum, movet a se concio planctum, 
Turba Bohemorum canit hoc quod scivit eorum 
Lingua, sed ipsorum pars maxima Tewtunicorura 
Cantat Tewtunicum. 

The establishment of the university of Prague 
in 1348, led to the cultivation and extension of 
the bohemian tongue, acquaintance with which 
was made necessary to the attainment of a public 
office. The coronation oath was yearly proclaim- 
ed in the language of the people, and several 
pieces of plate are yet preserved, belonging to 
queen Elizabeth (ob. 1393), on which bohemian 
inscriptions are engraved. In the reign of Wenzel, 
the public documents were kept in the popular 
tongue. Belonging to this epoch, there exists the 
Kronyka ceska, a rhymed bohemian chronicle, 
whose author is believed to be Dalimil Mezericky 

* Geschichte der Boh. Litt. 93. Ed. 1792. 



47 

canon of Altbunzlaw. The work is brought down 
to the year 1314. The object of the author is 
obviously to attack king John, and to alienate 
from him the affections of the bohemian people. 
But his authority as an historian is valueless, and 
his merit as a poet of the lowest order. He has 
flattered the vanity of his countrymen by extra- 
vagant eulogiums on their virtues and valour, and 
pours out a full cup of Slavonian hatred upon the 
teutonic races. Dobrowsky gives no very ho- 
nourable testimony to his character, for, says he, 
"he is not ashamed of many gross lies." This 
mendacious chronicle was however translated into 
german soon after its appearance. It has been 
twice printed ; in 1620 and 1786*. 

To some of the copies of this chronicle are at- 
tached divers historical and heroic tales in verse, 
a species of poetical composition accordant with 
the taste of the times. 

Hanka's Starobyla Skladanie also contains 
some curious poems from the MSS. in the library 
of the Prague cathedral ; among which are Alan, 
a poem on the restoration of man to his primeval 
perfection, an octosyllabic poem of above 1500 



lines. Sedm radostj Panny Marie, the seven 
joys of the virgin Mary ; smrtedlnosti, the 
memory of death ; sedmi stuaniciech, the five 
sources of sin ; Sedmezcietma Blaznow, six and 
twenty sorts of fools. Two books of the dis- 
tichs of Cato, in latin and bohemian, the bo- 
hemian being generally a ramification of the latin 
thought. These, and several religious composi- 
tions, belong to the 15th century at latest. They 
are almost wholly in octosyllabic verse composed 
of four trochees.* 

Smil von Riesenberg, who was in 1403 the go- 
vernor of Czaslaw, wrote a rhymed book of youth- 
ful counsel, which, though referred to by several 
posterior authors, has not reached our time. A 
MS. dated in 1459, and entitled Noiwa rada, 



* Among the prose compositions of this period, I can- 
not refrain from mentioning a bohemian translation, the 
Travels of Sir John Mandeville. It was made in 1445 
by Laurentius from the german version. This Lauren- 
tius, was a sort of lord of the bed-chamber to Wen- 
ceslaw. — Balbin also translated a chronicle of the Roman 
Emperors from the latin, and a Dream-book (Snar'), of 
^^'hich there are several MS. copies. 



49 

" True Counsel," Dobrowsky believes to be wholly 
distinct from that of Riesenberg. 

The fourteenth and fifteenth centuries produced 
many long poems. There is an epic of more than 
two thousand verses in rhyme, of which Alex- 
ander is the subject. This is probably an imita- 
tion of Philip Gualter de Chastillion's Alexan- 
dreyda, written at the end of the twelfth century, 
and dedicated to William, the second archbishop 
of Rheims. Gualter's poem seems to have intro- 
duced a passion for alexandrian epics. The 
Poema de Alexandra is one of the most remark- 
able specimens of early Spanish poetry, and there 
are no less than four poems in the french lan- 
guage on the same subject, and of the same pe- 
riod. The bohemian poem is in octosyllabic 
rhyme, but the MS. breaks off abruptly in the 
middle, at the S4th chapter, which is thus headed, 
* Hie intrat Alexander montium altitudines.' * 



* Since the above was written, the industrious and 
successful Hanka has discovered a MS. containing the 
rest of the poem. And his researches have had other 
grateful recompense. He has found an ancient MS. 
containing a collection of pieces in prose and verse, the 
D 



50 



The appearance of John Hus* associated Bo- 
hemia with that general demand for reform which 
exerted its irresistible influences over the fifteenth 



most remarkable of the latter, being Wada Wody 
s Winem, or the dispute between water and wine. 
Hanka informs me he has also had the good fortune to 
fall on a latin etymological lexicon composed by Solo- 
mon, bishop of Constance, who died in 920. The MS. 
was written in A. D. 1102, and contains more than four- 
teen hundred bohemian, and five hundred teutonic 
glosses ; the bohemian throws much light on the Slavo- 
nian mythology. Hanka means to publish this work. 
It is to be hoped, that no impediment will be thrown in 
his way, which one cannot but fear, from the arbitrary 
suppression of the fifth volume of his collection. It is 
not much to allow that those who have no hopes for the 
future, may be permitted to indulge in the memories of 
the past ; else it had been better that these MSS. should 
still have slept in the darkness of a temporary ob- 
scurity, than have been disinterred by learned industry 
in order to be delivered over by timidity or tyranny to 
eternal oblivion. 

* I give a fac simile of the hand-writing of John Hus, 
from a MS. existing at Prague. 









51 



and sixteenth centuries, and gave to the language 
and literature of Bohemia an extraordinary im- 
pulse. Of all the passions which agitate masses 
of men, the religious are the most extensive in 
their operation, and the most irresistible in their 
demands — because they are grounded on strong 
moral convictions, and associated with the sub- 
limest sentiments and sanctions which can operate 
on the mind ; with duty — with God — and with 
eternity. A slight portion of light and knowledge 
teaches the absurdity and the danger of consent- 
ing to see with the eyes of other men, and to sub- 
mit to the will of other men in matters which 
are believed to regard our own personal salvation ; 
and it is equally hopeless for a banefully esta- 
blished authority to contend against, or to submit 
to, the demand for discussion and inquiry, when 
that demand becomes many-voiced and mighty. 
Opposed, it sweeps away opposition, and assumes 
a more terrible character — and yielded to, it forti- 
fies itself in its new conquests, and goes forward 
with its requirements as it increases in power. 
In Bohemia, "the bible, the bible for the people," 
D 2 



52 

became the watch-word — the talisman — of reform ; 
and the simple and emphatic demand for '' the book 
of life" could not be overwhelmed by elaborate 
theses on the authority of the church — on the 
dangers and the crime of schism — nor by bulls 
and briefs which anathematised heresy. John 
Hus translated several of the works of WicklifFe 
into bohemian. The truths he held dear he 
caused to be written on the walls of his chapel, 
and he put hymns into the mouths of the people, 
which became more terrible weapons than swords 
and staves. His memorable death sanctified and 
endeared his doctrines, and even women (to the 
prodigious scandal of the catholic clergy) wrote 
defences of the great reformer. 

The Taborites, or Hussites, under their great 
leader Zizka, occupy an interesting situation im- 
mediately after the death of John Hus. Their 
bishop, Nicolas of Pelhrimow, excited the dis- 
pleasure of the magistracy of Prague by a tract 
which he wrote in 1420, and which they de- 
nounced as tainted with heresy. In 1423, this 
body proclaimed its anti-reforming character more 



53 

opeiily, and proposed to the konopist synod, that 
mass should be celebrated in *' one of the lan- 
guages unknown to the people." The enthusiasm 
of the Hussites, however, was not easily subdued, 
and the tone and temper with which they went 
forward in their great work may be judged of by 
that remarkable composition, written, it is said, 
by Zizka himself, — the song of war — beginning, 

" Kdoz gste Bozj bogownjey 
" a zakona geho." 

This hymn, though somewhat rude in its lan- 
guage, and stamped with the fierceness of the 
times, became almost sanctified to the Hussites, 
and was constantly sung in circumstances of doubt 
and danger, and before attacking the enemy. 

The following is a translation of this famous 
Taboritan* ode. 



• From Tabor, a Turkish and Magyar word, meaning — 
a field, a camp. There is a town and a mountain so called 
in Bohemia. The word is frequently used as synonymous 
with Hussite. 



54 



Hymn. 



Ye champions ! who maintain 

God's everlasting law. 
Call on his name again, 

And tow'rds his presence draw ; 
And soon your steady march your foes shall overawe 



% 



Why should you faint or fear ? 

He shall preserve ye still ; 
Life, love— all— all that's dear 

Yield to his holy will. 

And he shall steel your hearts, and strengthen you 
gainst ill. 

From Christ, a hundred fold 

Of bliss ye shall receive ; 
For time — that soon is told — 

Eternity he'll give ; 
And he that dies for truth immortally shall live. 



55 

Lift, then, your lances high, 

Ye men of knightly word, 
For valor shall supply 

Meet weapons from her hoard. 
And ye shall bravely fight, ye servants of the Lord. 



Why should ye dread the foe, 

Tho' numerous they may be ? 
Will God desert ye ? No ! 
For him, and with him, ye 
Shall dissipate the base and boasting enemy. 

Have ye not understood 

Your ancient proverb^ — hear ! 
" Bohemians it is good, 

" With a good Lord, to bear 
" The flag of victory and its proud standard rear. 



* A bohemian proverb — " Ze podle dobreho pana, Dobra 
gjzda bywa" — it is good to ride under a good Lord. 



56 

Ye thieves, ye ravens, think 

What perils round ye fly ; 
Ye stand upon the brink 

Where fraud and avarice nigh. 
Will fling ye to the abyss of night and misery. 

Think — think while yet ye may. 

And thinking — O retreat 
From danger — while 'tis day ; 

O, thoughtless ones ! 'tis meet 
That he who slips should watch another's slippery feet. 






Then to the bloody fight ! 

One only word — On ! On ! 
Your weapons — for the right — 

And God your trust alone ; Qnone. 

Smite, smite — let none be spared ! let mercy be for 

The date of this composition is about 1420. 
Its author, John von Trotznow, is more com- 
monly known by the name of Zizka. It was 
sung by the whole of the Hussite army whenever 
they were about to engage the enemy. 



57 

When the perfidy with which John Hus was 
betrayed, and the cruelty with which he was sa- 
crificed are considered, the temper of this hymn 
will hardly be wondered at. And the edge of bit- 
terness was whetted anew by the martyrdom of Je- 
rome, which followed that of his friend and master. 

The rebellion of the bohemians necessarily 
made them obnoxious to the court of Rome, and 
in that recklessness of human suffering which so 
frequently accompanies the decrees of arbitrary 
power, the pope hurled his curses, not only against 
bohemians, but against all who should hold in- 
tercourse with a race which destroyed the then 
existing " social order." The evil which was 
thus inflicted became the source of good, and the 
bohemians, thrown upon their own resources, 
made rapid advances in the arts, in literature, 
and in general improvement. Kristan's medical 
writings obtained a wide reputation. A variety 
of theological and ethical works grew out of the 
then active discussions. Walecowsky wrote two 
books against the priesthood, of which, Balbin 
says, they are quam eleganter Boemice tarn viru- 
lenter. The printing-press was employed in 
D 5 



58 

Bohemia as early as 1475, in the production of 
the new testament : in 1 487, the psalter, and 
in 1488, the entire bible, was printed at Prague. 
In 1492, the resolutions of the bohemian diet 
were first printed. 

Of the translation of the bible into bohemian, the 
oldest is that of 141 1, of which a MS. is to be found 
in the episcopal library of Leutmeritz. Another 
copy, by the same author (Matthew of Prague), in 
the Slavonic character, bears the date of 1413-14. 
The Benedictine monks produced a version in 
1416, and several other translations exist, re- 
specting which, Dobrowsky's detailed account 
may be advantageously consulted. 

Attached to a translation of the Trojan History 
of Guido di Columna, is a long poem, consisting 
of nearly nine thousand verses, entitled Tristram, 
and forming the fourth volume of the Starobyla 
Skladanie.* Miller has given a translation of 
this poem in his collection of German Poetry of 
the 12th, 13th, and 14th, centuries. 



^ Tristram Weliky' Rek-basen hrdinska, xiii. weku 
wydana od Waclawa Hanky. Praze, 1820. 



59 



The chronicle of Prokop fProkopowa nowd 
Kronijka)j which Dobrowsky places in the middle 
of the 15th century, is another of the remarkable 
poetical productions of this period. It is the 
first in Hanka's collection, and consists of 1,100 
octosyllabic verses. It was written by the historio- 
grapher of Prague. 

The dispersion of the catholics under Ferdi- 
nand the 2nd, conveniently forms the modern 
boundary of the second epoch of bohemian litera- 
ture. Its poetry is tinged with that religious 
feeling which characterised the age. The priest- 
hood, who became the instructors of others, as 
they were the sole depositaries of instruction, gave 
to the literature which they created a supersti- 
tious and degraded tone, and swept away with 
their torrents of religious and sacred canticles — 
their dull, dubious and rhymed morality — almost 
all of natural feeling and generous enthusiasm. 
All Bohemia v^^as possessed with the spirit of re- 
ligious zeal — a spirit towering over and destroying 
every other. From the time of John Hus, down 
to the beginning of the seventeenth century, very 



60 



few compositions can be found, which bear not 
the marks of the polemics of the time. 

The specimens which immediately follow, are 
scraps of the fifteenth century. They exist only 
in MS. in the archives of Schwartzenberg, and 
are very superior to most of the poetry of the 
period. 



Precekage wse zle straze. 

I LEFT my horse in the oaken grove. 
And sought the presence of my love ; 
The watchmen went their wonted beat, 
I placed me at my lady's feet. 

And with my loud-voiced songS;, I broke 
My lady's slumbers, and she woke ; 
She woke — and then sweet accents stray 'd 
From the loved bosom of the maid. 

** 'Tis time (she said), 'tis time to rise. 
The dawning morning lights the skies. 



61 

The day draws near— and busy men 
Wake to their wonted toils again. 

" The little birds have roused them long. 
Shaken their plumes and tuned their song ; 
Have tuned their songs and winged their flight. 
And left me to my sorrow's night." 

O why should separation's power 
Divide us in auspicious hour ? 
Love ! bound to each our hearts shall be. 
And undisturbed by jealousy. 

Night ! silent are thy steps and slow. 
Fain would I to my lady go ; 
Fain would I pour my fondest vow-r- 
But nothing can console me now. 

My heart is wrapp'd in dark distress — 
In gloom, and in unquietness — 
What can her absent charms replace. 
What smile, where smiled her lovely face ? 



62 

O heaven ! not long — not long, may I 
For this, my distant maiden, sigh ! 
" Sigh not — it is enough for thee 
To rest on my fidelity." 

Kdez se zena nebogj. 

Master weak and mistress strong. 
Then be sure the house goes wrong ; 
Where the mistress master rules. 
One's a fool, or — both are fools. 

When the water leaves the haven. 
When the black deserts the raven. 
Then a crafty wife, I guess. 
Will be cured of craftiness. 



NEW YEARS GOOD WISHES. 

Panj mila ! k te twe milosti. 

Pretty maiden ! let love and let pleasure attend thee. 
And joy hover round — and affection defend thee : 



6a 

And twirling thy distaff be smiling and gay. 
And have all thy wishes, and have all thy way ; 
Let thy thread just be thick or be thin at thy will, 
But hang not so far o'er the high window-sill ; 
I fear me thy spindle thou'lt break, which would vex 

thee; 
Thy thread thou wilt lose, and that would perplex 

thee ; 
So take my good wishes — as meant — not amiss. 
And may the new year be a new year of bliss. 

Milowanie bez wjdanie. 

To love — and not to see her face — 
Is darkness, and no star-lamp o'er it ; 
To see — without one dear embrace — 
Is a dark field without a flow'ret. 

Wjli pak doktor as, wjli doktor wjli. 

Full well the doctor knows — the doctor knows 

full well. 
That wine — that wine's the thing to work a miracle. 



64 

would the doctor come and drink with, us awhile ; 
Soon would he shout for wine ! and not for camomile ! 

1 think our latin cooks* — if thev would but confess. 
Would like our ruby wine — and leave their dirty mess. 

'Tis wine — 'tis wine that makes our understanding 

bright ; 
That drives our flowing blood — and bids our hearts 

feel light. 

And then, O brother mine ! on light and joyous toe. 
How gaily to our homes, how merrily we go. 

How passing fair the moon then rolls about our head. 
And whirls her silver wheel, and cheers us as we 
tread. 

And then, and then, I say, while thro* the world I 

roam, 
'Tis wine, 'tis v/ine that makes the flowers of life to 

bloom. 

* Latinska Kuchyne. A cominoa bohemian phrase for 
apothecary. 



65 

The following " Beggar's Song," which belongs 
to this epoch, is not without humour^ 

Milj chudj, tesrae se, radost se nam stata. 

Up beggars ! be joyful, for joy is our own. 
Our garments are raining,* and bald is our crown — 
Beloved ! want presses us — what shall we do ? — 
Why, want is one woe — discontent would make two. 

Let's in to the inn, tho' we stay but a minute. 
For the bottle looks mournful when nothing is in it ; 
Legs weary — bags empty — and what shall we do ? — 
Why — bearing one burthen — we need not make two ! 

On friday we dine — from a half-empty pot — 

Sour broth — ragged bones — bread and water we've 

got ; 
And fish? — without doubt — ^in the Danube— 'the sea. 
Which are fresher and sweeter than caught fish can be. 

* Satky z nas oprsely— Our clothes rain from us— 
i.e. they fall off in rags. 



66 

And Saturday comes — that's perplexing and rude — 
And Sunday — with hunger^ — but where is the food? 
We sit at the table — poor devils ! to eat. 
Were the table but covered, our task would be 
sweet. 

Our cooks are sad pigmies — they cannot be less ; 
They needs must look small when they've nothing to 

dress — ^ 

Can they carve from a fog — make of darkness a 

stew — 
Or turn a stag's ghost to a venison ragout ? 

The bohemian press was in full activity during 
the sixteenth and the beginning of the seventeenth 
century — an epoch to which their historians attach 
the delusive title of the " golden age." — The 
circulation of the laws in the language of the peo- 
ple—its adoption for the celebration of the mass, 
and for the preaching of the clergy — the number 
of translations from classical and foreign sources, 
greatly contributed to enlighten and elevate the 
nation. Balbin's " Bohemia Docta" the works of 



67 

Voigt, Pelzel,^ and Prochazka,t give abundant 
details of the activity and literary temper of this 
period. Optat and Gzel published a grammar in 
1533,1 which served to fix the bohemian ortho- 
graphy. Simon Lomnicky von Budec, the only 
laureate of the bohemians, must not be passed over. 
His versification is harsh, though not without comic 
and satirical talent. He wrote songs continually 
for more than forty years, and produced, as may 
well be supposed, a countless number. 

The two following anonymous poems probably 
belong to the sixteenth or seventeenth century. 



I 



W sychtarowic dworu. 

In the judge's court 

We fix the horses in their stall. 

And ask a gift from all. 



* Eflfigies virorum eruditorum atque artificium Bohemias 
et Morayiae, 1773, 1783. Auctores Voigt, Bora, et Pelzel. 

t F. Proclaaska de saecularibus liberalium artium in Bohemia 
et Moravia fatis commentarius. Pragae, 1782. 

t It was republished in 1588, and again in 1643. 



68 

Come, my mother, come ! 
Let thy generous hand be seen. 
Pouring presents on the queen. 

Many a present thou — 

Many a present thou shalt bring 

For the queen and for the king. 

We will build a throne 

For the king, of precious stones. 

And of gold that's fit for thrones. 

For the queen we'll build 
Thrones of peacock's feathers, dight, 
With the flowers of May-time bright. 

Household mother ! come. 
To the king a friendly greeting, 
Welcome to the queen repeating. 

Generous offerings your's — 
Baskets seven of eggs provide. 
And three kops * of groats beside. 

* A tri kopy grosu. — And three three-score groats. 
This expression is evidence of the antiquity of this song, as 



The Mother's Curse. 
Casne rano po nede'li. 

Early, at the Sabbath dawning, 
Hermann combed his faithful charger : 
When his mother to him hastened. 
And she offered him four apples — 
" Whither art thou speeding, Hermann ? 
Wherefore hast thy courser saddled ?" 
" I am going to my maiden. 



this manner of counting has been obsolete in Bohemia for two 
centuries at least. 

In measure and manner this song resembles the Servian 
Kralitze, or songs of the queen, of which some account will be 
found in Vuk's Servian Dictionary (art. Kralitze.) The 
bohemians have not so many of these national composi- 
tions as the Servians, nor have they preserved those Slavonian 
habits, which remoteness from european influences has left 
untouched among the latter. The peculiarities which charac- 
terise a sect or people must be sought where civilization, or 
intercourse with other nations, has not yet amalgamated or 
destroyed their individuality. But these songs in praise of 
her who becomes the chosen queen of the village, are common 
among all the Slavonian tribes. We have our drawing for king 
and queen on twelfth night, but there is no antique poetry, 
that I recollect, to adorn the sport. 



70 

To my well-beloved Dortha." 
" Go not thither, Hermann ! go not ; 
Send thy saddled steed to bring her."— 
" Nay, I will not be uncourteous. 
Will not let the guests draw hither. 
While I tarry in my dwelling." 
" Then let Hermann's neck be broken; 
Never let him wend him hither." 
Hasten — hasten — hither hasten. 
Viols, and guitars are playing, 
1 Bubnowaks,* and drums and trumpets. 

As they passed across the meadow. 
Underneath the shady^ lindens, 
Hermann's faithful charger stumbled,t 
Hermann fell — his neck was broken. 
Long they stood, and long they counselled. 
While the music still was playing ; 
Long they counselled — whether onwards, 

* Kettle-drums. 

t Konjcek zlamal nozicku — literally, the steed broke 
his foot. 



71 

Whether backwards they should hasten — 
" Hasten, hasten, forward hasten. 
To my gold and to my gladness — 
If she may not be my portion. 
She shall be my younger brother's." 
Hurry, hurry, hurry onward. 
Viols and guitars are playing, 
Bubnowaks, and drums and trumpets. 

So they sped them up the mountain. 
To the towers of NowosedKtz — 
" Dortha ! open ! swiftly open. 
Give the wedding-guests thy greeting." 
Dortha opened, swiftly opened — 
In an instant fear o'ercame her — 
" Welcome ! wedding guests ! be welcome - 
Tell me Avhere ye left the bridegroom ?" 
" Safe at home we left the bridegroom 
Making ready for the wedding.*' 
" I have been at many a wedding. 
Never saw I, never heard I, 
That at home a brideo-room tarried. 



72 

Making ready for the wedding.'* 
Dortha's mother then forbade them, 
Till they brought the bridegroom thither— 
" Mother ! nay ! but give the maiden. 
Nay ! deny us not thy Dortha." 
Then her mother clad her gaily. 
Gave her many a splendid garment. 
Led her forth, and gave the maiden ; 
And began a piteous mourning. 
Hasten — hasten — onwards hasten. 
Viols and guitars are playing. 
Kettle-drums and loud-voic'd trumpets. 

When they passed across the meadow. 
Underneath the shady lindens, 
Dortha saw beneath her carriage. 
Drops of blood upon the border — 
" That is Hermann's blood ! 'tis Hermann's !' 
" Nay ! it is no blood of mortal, 
'Tis some tenant of the forest ; 
'Tis some doe, by Hermann slaughtered. 
Venison for his guests providing. 



73 

Hasten — hasten— hasten onward. 
Viols and guitars are playing, 
Kettle-drums and loud-voiced trumpets. 

So they hastened up the mountain. 
And they entered Hermann's dwelling— 
" Mother ! come and greet the maiden ; 
Greet the bride, the wretched woman." — 
" Shall I greet thee, wretched maiden ! 
Would that thou thy neck hadst broken 
Ere that thou hadst known my Hermann."- 
" Brother ! go, and greet the maiden ; 
Greet the bride, thy hapless sister." — 
" Sister ! go and greet the maiden. 
Greet the bride, thy hapless sister." 
" Sister I sister ! well I greet thee. 
In a year a son shall bless thee." 
And the mother deemed it evil 
That her children greeted Dortha. 
" Wherefore, wherefore, deem it evil — 
I, at least, no wrong have done thee." 
In the midst of evening's banquet, 
E 



74 

Lo ! the bell of death was tolling : 
Dortha shrunk with fear and terror— 
'^ Say ! for whom that bell is tolling ? 
Ah ! indeed it tolls for Hermann."—. 
" Hermann in his room is resting. 
Suffering from a bitter head-ache — 
Tis some little child departed— 
Tis some little swaddled infant." 
Dortha, from the table rising, 
Took a knife from 'midst her tresses. 
And she plunged it in her bosom. 
She is with her Hermann buried ; 
In one grave they lie together. 
If thou pass thro' yonder church-yard. 
Breathe a gentle prayer of pity- 
There sleeps Hermann near his Dortha, 
As a brother near his sister. 

This poem resembles many of the old Slavonian 
stories, both in its manner and measure. 

The passage which Celakowsky has thus 
printed, 



75 

Dornicka se hned ulekla 

A brzo prawdu poznala 

W okamzenj dokonala, 
should rather be : 

Ona od stolu wyskocila 

Dwa noze w cepenj mela 

Geden si k srdci wrazila. 
It is to be regretted that few ballads such as 
these are to be found among the traditional poetry 
of Bohemia. 

Attempts were made, as early as the year 
1515, to introduce the rules of latin prosody 
into bohemian verse; but as the accent invari- 
ably falls on the first syllable, it is clearly im- 
possible that the bohemian language should be 
adapted to a versification whose character so much 
depends on the changing position of the accents. 
Komenius made such an experiment, and, in 
1662, printed his " Cato" at Amsterdam, in 
bohemian hexameters ; and Wenzel Rosa, over- 
come with delight at the attempt, reprinted 
the volume in 1670, but he confesses he was 
obliged to " count the feet with his fingers." 
E 2 



76 

Though the battle of the white mountain, in 

1620, was immediately fatal only to the reformers 

of Bohemia, yet its consequences were terrible to 

the whole bohemian people. Civil war in its 

worst shapes devastated the land, and so fierce 

were its visitations, that the Jesuit Balbin, in one 

of his letters, expresses his surprise that, after so 

many proscriptions, exiles, flights, and suflPerings, 

a single inhabitant should remain. The language 

of Bohemia was abandoned — its literature fell into 

decay. The taint of heresy had so deeply stained 

the works of more than two centuries, that they 

were all recklessly condemned to the flames. 

Banishment was the portion of the most illustrious 

among the bohemians, and an equal, undistin- 

guishing malediction pursued every thing which 

bore a Slavonian character. And long did the 

stigma of heresy attach to the productions of the 

bohemian press, so that works which had been 

published under the accustomed ecclesiastical 

sanction, were banished and banned by the Indices 

of 1729, 1749, and even as late as 1767. Nay, 

the work of a romish pope (the chronicle of Mneas 

Sylvius), and which appeared under the sanction 



n 

of the archbishop of Prague, was condemned by 
the inquisitorial spirit of the time. Not catholic- 
ism alone, but ultra-catholicism (as Dobrowsky 
remarks) was required from the unhappy bohe- 
mians, and the free inquiries and high aspirations 
of Hus, and Jerome, and Zizka were to be super- 
seded by the debasements of the monkish spirit, 
and the fierce and barbarous ignorance of a perse- 
cuting priesthood. Legends and lives of the 
saints — trumpery discussions about trumpery 
dogmas — and all those streams of pitiful and use- 
less learning, in which civil and religious despot- 
ism seek to engage and to exhaust inquiry, were 
poured over Bohemia. The only poetical work of 
this epoch entitled to attention, is the Zdoroslaw- 
jcek (the proud nightingale) of Spee, translated 
into bohemian by Felix Kadlinsky, who died in 
1675. A little before his death, Zywalda pub- 
lished a volume of " Rhymings " (Zbehnutj 
Ssederase sedm let. Prague, 1668), which are 
of little value. 

The eighteenth century is very bare of bohemian 
productions. A few devotional works, and one 
volume of geometry, appeared, and all the rest 
(says Dobrowsky), is " want and poverty." The 



80 

least for the Slavonian sounds, which find no repre- 
sentatives in th e roman characters. The bohemians 
did not encumber themselves with so many letters 
as the poles, but employed a far simpler system of 
orthography. The pole, for example, writes 

wierzy, czysty, pyszny^ szczps'cie; 
the bohemian 

werj, cisty, pysny', stestj, 

being the same words. 

The bohemian orthography is invariable, and 
the pronunciation equally so, every letter being 
uttered precisely as it is written. The vowels are 
separated into short and long, which are thus dis- 
tinguished : 

short, a e y o u 
long, a e y u(6) u. 

The consonants are divided into hard and soft ; 
the soft generally follow an e or y, in which case 
these letters are converted into e and i, or when 
the accent is on the y, into j, as beda, djte, peti, 
menjm. — If the soft consonant be either at the end 
of the word, or follow the a, o, or u, it is marked 



81 

by an apostrophe, as bud', ban', let"", rozpaty, das, 
i t6pan, pocitugi. 

The characteristic letters of the bohemian al- 
phabet are 

c pronounced ch as in church, 

ss or s ... sh ... shall, 

z ... z ... azure.* 

Like all of the Slavonian languages it has a 

great number of sibilants, and, independently of 

I the many words in which the letter s with its 

I modifications is found, it is curious to trace how it 

has given the hissing character to words of greek, 

latin, and teutonic origin, in which it is wholly 

wanting ; as, for example, zyma x^^/^a (hyems) ; 

zluc, x^^^ » piece, TrXarai : zrno, granum ; Ijzati, 

lingo; praziti, frigere ; urdce, herz; cepice, kappe; 

celiti, heilen, &c. The letter f is wanting to its 

alphabet. Dobrowsky very ingeniously remarks, 

: that the Slavonians were exceedingly disposed to 



♦ The bohemians and moravians have also the r^, an r 
I pronounced with the assistance of the tongue and the 
t teeth, 

E 5 



82 

crowd the consonants into the first syllable, and to 
leave out the vowels in words of foreign origin, as 
for instance ; brada, beard ; mleko, milk ; mrawy, 
mores ; raru, morior ; piny, plenus ; breg, berg 
(mountain). 

The resemblance between the bohemian and 
polish is great. About three-fourths of the whole 
number of words in both languages, are derived 
from a common root ; but in the construction and 
pronunciation it has more affinity with the rus- 
sian. It has the remarkable peculiarity of placing 
the accent on the first syllable, and of even sub- 
mitting foreign words to this almost universal law ; 
Lucerna, for example, is pronounced Lucerna. 

The late writers on bohemian prosody contend, 
that of all living languages (the mor avian and 
slowakian excepted, which are dialects of the bohe- 
mian), theirs is the only one whose verses may 
be measured by feet instead of syllables;* the 
discovery is one of our own times, and escaped 
the observation of Dobrowsky, the most indefatig- 
able of Slavonian critics. It would not be easy, 

* For a very curious paper on the subject, see Krok. 



83 



however, to produce more perfect hexameters than 
are to be found in the bohemian language. As an 
example, I give a translation of Bion's verses on 
the death of Adonis : 

Zel po Adonu upjm ; spanily ach zesnul Adonis ! 
Zesnul Adon spanily ; upegj tez s placem Eroti, 
Wjce na purpurowem, o Kyprido, luzku nedrjmey ; 
Wstan, uboha, trnaworaucha wstan, a w sweprsy bj se, 
Bj a woley wsechnem ; spanily ach zesnul Adonis ! 

Of the harmony and elasticity of the bohemian 
language, the following specimen of translation 
from Petrarch's sonnet " Stiamo, amor a veder la 
gloria nostra," is a remarkable example. The 
rendering could scarcely be closer, 

Postugme, Lasko, ay hie nase slawa, 

Weci nade prjrodu zwysene a nowe : 
Wiz, gacj okolo nj plynau puwabovve, 
Ay swetlo, njmz se nebe nam w odiw podawa \ 

Gak ladne zlato s perlami protkawa 

Newjdane i raucho gegi purpurowe ; 
Gak plesj stinne doly, gasnj pahorkowe 
Na nichzto gegi oko i noha postawa. 



84 

Tu trawka zelena tu stobarewne kwjtj 

Klonj se starowekym pod dubem prosjce> 
By aspon pekne nozky qich se udolknuly ; 

I nebe proniknuto os wetau se njtj 

A Ijbost tagna geho zweseluge Ijce. 
Ze krasne na ne oci gasnost wylinuly. 

The simple lyrics which follow are those which 
are at this moment the most current among the 
bohemians. When peace succeeded to the agita- 
tions of the thirty years' war, it brought with it the 
old love and practice of music and song which 
characterise all the Slavonian tribes. In these 
compositions are deeply- stamped the habits and 
the position of the bohemian people. They are, 
almost without exception, modest, rural, and 
domestic. They recount no heroic deeds — assume 
no popular triumph — record no patriotic names. 
They are simple and pathetic developments of 
household sympathies — of the passion of love — 
or rivalry or jealousy — or of some of the infinite 
gradations of pain and pleasure which enter into 
the daily history of universal man. Some of them 
contain lessons of unobtrusive truth and wisdom : 



85 

others record some affecting story. There is in 
all of them an eagerness and cordiality, a happy 
choice of imagery, and a sportive and genial ima- 
ginativeness. I have always refrained from at- 
tempting to adapt them to english taste, and the 
occasions are very few in which I have wandered 
even from the phraseology of the original. 

The language of art and civilization differs little 
among different nations; nationality must be 
sought among popular masses. The sublime ab- 
stractions of poetry find no chord of sympathy 
among the people — what the people admire and 
love must come home to their every-day thoughts 
and every-day affections. It must at least have 
the recommendation of simplicity. Its value and 
power depend on its being the faithful mirror of 
the pursuits, prejudices, and passions, of common 
life. It must not be measured by a high intellect- 
ual standard ; nor be expected to pourtray those 
more dehcate and complex sensibilities which grow 
out of excessive refinement. 

Thus the only poetry which can become national 
must be suited to the national civilization. It 
must be the representative of the affections which 



86 

are natural to all, rather than of the cultivated in- 
tellect which belongs but to a few. It may not 
dlscurse into the realms of philosophy — for the 
multitude cannot follow it thither — it must not 
introduce the personages of mythology, for they 
are strange and unintelligible to the unlearned — 
it can only revert to such facts or fragments of 
history as are preserved in the traditions of the 
many — in a word, it must approve itself to the 
general understanding, which will never be highly 
elevated, and condescend to the intellectual medi- 
ocrity of the masses of mankind. 

An ingenious criticism on the popular poetry of 
the bohemians may be seen in the Prague Monthly 
Periodical (for August, 1827), written by M. 
Miiller, the oesthetic professor in that capital. 
There is truth in the observation, that history and 
heroism have furnished few subjects for bohemian 
national songs : and this, he says, is the more 
remarkable when they are compared or contrasted 
with those of other Slavonian races, and especially 
the Servian and the russian. But how should 
such songs exist — or, if they ever existed, how 
should they be long preserved, in a state of so- 



87 

ciety where no man dares to be abohemian ? That 
freedom of thought and expression which opens to 
the poet the great expanse of space and time — the 
whole field of the past and the future — which 
allows him to revel in all that is delightful in re- 
collection, and in all that is beautiful in anticipa- 
tion — is denied to the minstrel of Bohemia. He 
may neither record the struggles of his ancestors 
for liberty, nor dream of the day when self- 
government shall give to his country whatever of 
happiness she is capable of enjoying. Love, of 
all the passions which he is permitted to sing, 
is that which allows the widest scope to his 
imagination — and love is the ever-ruling subject 
of his verse. And surely their popular poets have 
treated this with exquisite tenderness and effect, 
and have given it many varied forms of sweetness 
and strength. 

Miiller says of his countrymen, that " the key 
to their hearts is easily found, and that the senti- 
ments by which they are lightly and easily moved, 
find a swift expression in songs and proverbs. 
In no country is there so much of singing and 
dancing as in Bohemia. The bohemian sings 



with the sweat upon his brow — his festivals are 
worthless unless accompanied by music, and hi& 
devotion seems to burst forth in all its power when 
the united voices of the congregation are blended 
in a common hymn. The chorus of the people 
always follows the tones of the hand organ, and 
when winter gathers the choristers into their 
domestic abodes, they soon grow impatient for 
the return of spring, that they may breathe and 
sing anew in the fresh air. Our harp -minstrels, 
our french-horn, and clarionet players go forth 
into the whole of Europe^ and yet we have no 
want of music at home." 

But M. Miiller appears to me to depreciate too 
much the value of popular poetry as the auxiliary 
of history. The historian ought not to be a mere 
chronicler of important facts, for such facts cover 
only a small part of the domain of history. Great 
changes are constantly going forward — changes of 
the highest interest and importance — which are 
scarcely to be exhibited in individual events — but 
which it is the undoubted duty of the historian to 
display. A love story may throw more light upon 
the manners and civilization —upon the state of 



I 



morals and politics of any age — than the details 
of a battle. Poetry is not indeed a very con- 
venient instrument for historical narration. Its 
imaginativeness and its passions little suit the 
sobriety of the chronicler. It has always some 
purpose to serve of pride or pleasure. Its mate- 
rials, if not poetical, must be made so, and truth 
be abandoned wherever it interferes with that 
excitement which it is the first end of the poet to 
create. But if the authority of song in positive 
and specific facts must be looked on with distrust, 
and examined with scrupulous care, it is not the 
less an admirable mirror to show 

" The very age and body of the time, 
" Its form and pressure/' 

and I cannot but think that it might be made 
far more subservient than it has been made, to the 
elucidation of history. 

The bohemians have great masses of popular 
songs. Scarcely is a new air introduced ere a 
number of words are found to suit it. Celakowsky 
mentions having been present among an assembly 
of peasants, when a young girl started a verse— 



90 



another completed it — a third began a second 
verse — and so they proceeded until a little poem was 
created. If such a production have merit, it travels 
from mouth to mouth, improving as it goes, till it 
is found worth while to print it, and it is sold on a 
coarse scrap of paper at a country market or fair. 
At Prague, on the great way to the Domo Church, 
many ballad-sellers and ballad-singers are daily 
found. M. Miiller thinks the blossoms of bohe- 
mian popular poetry are fading — and no doubt 
they are — for the poetry of civilization — the poetry 
of schools and books — the poetry of cultivated intel- 
lect — is superseding, and will supersede, the more 
natural and artless strains which are the charm of 
a ruder state of society. And with the generations 
of older time, much of the spirit which animated 
them is departed, and we cannot enter fully into 
the intensity of their emotions, nor give to their 
words the energy they received from the associa- 
tions which were then attached to them. 

Of all the Slavonian ballads, the bohemian are 
the most musical. They are not to be read, they 
must be sung. Their general character is the 
expression of tranquil pleasure — their decorations 



91 



are the scenery of pastoral life — and their subjects 
the domestic affections. Their more quiet accom- 
paniments are flowers and rivulets, and the green 
turf— roses for maidens — rosemary for lovers — and 
the associations of the most impassioned fragments 
are rocks, and mountains and dark clouds. But 
none of them have the wild mythology, nor the 
fabulous historical adornings of the more oriental 
Slavonians. 

I have not used a collection of bohemian songs, 
Ceske ndrodni pjsne, by Ritter von Rittersberg, 
published at Prague in 1825. They are german 
as well as Slavonian, and do not appear to have 
been selected with any regard to their poetical 
merits. In truth they are not much better than 
the "London cries," and appear mostly gathered 
up from among the inhabitants of towns. They 
are many of them translations from austrian 
german — and have little of the raciness, and less 
of the simplicity, of Slavonian popular poetry. The 
object of the collector was, I believe, rather to 
exhibit the music of Bohemia, than to publish the 
best specimens of its songs. 



92 



Nas kohautek kokrh^, kokrha. 

Our cock crows loudly^, lustily, ] 

The morn begins to shine ; 
My love is thinking — thinking of me. 

Gentle mother mine ! 
Sweet youth ! my heart's own child ! how sweet, 
Thee with thy maiden's kiss to greet — 

And ask a kiss from thee. 

Mother ! awake from rest — from rest. 

Father says " Up, and away." 
Make ready the feast — make ready the feast. 

For thy daughter's marriage-day ; 
Thy daughter's marriage-day is this ; 
She must awake to bliss — to bliss. 

And leave the pillow she prest. 

And O ! my lover draws near — draws near — 

I see his eager speed ; 
He will soon be here — he will soon be here, 

He and his snowy steed; 



93 

Haste, thou dear, thou lovely boy- 
Haste my hope, my love, my joy, 
Hasten to claim thy dear. 

My heart is glad — my heart is gay. 
It springs like a lark above ; 

day of delight — delightful day. 
Which gives me all my love.* 

1 had many a fear — my fears are gone, 
I shall not journey — journey alone. 

An orphaned virgin's way. 

Kdyz sem ga sel skrz cernej les. 

1 SOUGHT the dark field w^here the oat-grass vras 

growing. 
The maidens were there — and that oat-grass were 

mowing ; 
And I call'd to those maidens — "Now say if there be 
The maiden I love 'midst the maidens I see." 

■w 

* Ze budu mjt chlapce — youth — lad — boy. 



94 

And they sighed as they answered, "Ah ! no ! alas! no. 
She was laid in the bed of the tomb long ago." 

" Then show me the way where my footsteps must 

tread, 
To reach that dark chamber where slumbers the dead." 

" The path is before thee — -her grave will be known. 
By the rosemary wreathes her companions have 
strown." 

" And where is the church — and the churchyard — 

whose heaps 
Will point out the bed where the blessed one sleeps ?" 

So straight to the church-yard in sadness I drew. 
But I saw no fresh heap, and no grave that was new. 
I turned — a new grave slowly rose at my feet. 
And my heart froze all o'er with a damp icy sweat. 
And I heard a low voice — but it audibly said, 
" Disturb not— disturb not the sleep of the dead. 

Who treads on my bosom— what footsteps have swept 
The dew from the bed where the weary one slept?" 



95 

" My maiden ! my maiden ! so speak not to me, 
My presents were once not unwelcome to thee." 

'^ Thy presents were welcome — yet none could I save, 
Not one could I bring to the stores of the grave ! 

" Go thou to my mother — and bid her restore 
Every gift to thy hands which I valued before. 
Then fling the gold ring in the depth of the sea, 
And eternity's peace shall be given to me. 
And sink that white kerchief deep, deep in the wave. 
That my head may repose undisturbed in the grave." 

Of this remarkable production two versions are 
given by Celakowsky, i. p. 4, andiii. p. 16. 



Pres ty puste lesy. 

Far, far beyond the gloomy grove- 
Far, far art thou removed, my love,* 

* rote snj— -a term of great endearment. 



96 

Far, far away ! Ye rocks divide ! 

Ye vales ! be level as a plain ; 
Fall down, ye woods, my love that hide. 

And let me see her face again — 
And bless me with one living glance. 
Of that enrapturing countenance. 

W kralohrade na zahrade. 

In the kingly palace garden 

Blooms a roselet fair and bright, 

See, it has been sprinkled over 
With repeated dews of night. 

In the kingly palace garden, 

See the bud that rose-tree bears ; 

Twice — my lovely maid — at even. 
Twice — hath bath'd it with her tears. 

In the kingly palace garden. 

There we poured our last adieu ! 

And behind that lovely rose-tree. 
Gave our parting kisses too. 



97 



Kdyz sem sel skrz dubowy les. 

O'erpowered by weariness, I slept* 

Within the oaken-grove — 
And near me grew, as morning woke 

A rosemary-tree above. 

I GATHERED many a rosemary-branch, 
And twin'd them in a wreath. 

And threw it in the flowing stream-— 
The fresh cool stream beneath. 

And said, whoe'er this wreath shall see. 

And save it from the tide. 
That maiden shall my mistress be. 

That maiden be my bride. 

And morning came — and many a maid 

Her pitcher went to fill. 
They watch'd the verdant rosemary- wreath 

That floated on the rill. 

* drjmota — slumber — from dremota (Russ). 
F 



98 

LuDMiLA* saw the flowers, and stretch'd 
Her hand to grasp the wreath, 

Poor dove ! she fell — the stream roU'd on— 
'Twas silence all — and death. 

And thrice, and thrice the funeral bell 

Toll'd with a heavy tone : — 
And tell me — ye, who know so well. 

What mortal soul is gone ? 

'' It is thy maiden — 'tis thy joy — 
See, 'midst that mist of gloom. 

They fit her shroud — ^four black-roVd men. 
They lower her in her tomb." 

O God belov'd ! and dost thou take 

My maiden in thy wrath ! 
Sweet bird of mercy ! to her grave, 

O, show me now the path. 



* Orig. Liduska — diminutive of Ludnnla— bohemian tutelar 
saint — foimerly Lidunka and Lidka. 



99 

Behind that mountain — in yon aisle, 

A choir of priests outpour 
Hymns — and five paces from the church. 

The green-sod wraps her o'er. 

Then let me mourn, and let me weep— 

And to her grave FU go — 
And there eternal watches keep. 

Communing with my woe. 

And then my eye shall shed dark tears. 
Till they are clos'd in death. 

And time shall hang upon my bier* 
That fatal rosemary-wreath. 



prjkrow — tlie black cloth which covers the bier. 



p2 



100 



Gak gsau tu cesticku. 



\j w 



<j — *-' w 



o — <-» w — 

w — U U — 



Our footsteps have trod o'er 
The path of the mountain. 
The messengers rode o'er ; 

Rapidly, rapidly on : 
They brought from my maiden 
A message of sweetness : 
They brought it in fleetness. 

From her I won. 

From morning's first waking. 
To slumbers of even. 
Till frown'd the arch'd heaven. 
Mantled in cloudiest gloom ; 



101 

They came o'er the water ; 
They brought me sweet kisses. 
From beauty's own daughter. 
In all her bloom. 

When o'er the green hillock 
Our footsteps ascended. 
The flowrets we blended. 

Maiden, we twin'd them for thee ; 
And, O ! could I whisper. 
Sweet maiden ! and dearest, 
O say, if thou hearest. 

How dear to me I 



Pase owcak, pase owce. 



With his flock the shepherd sallies. 
Bending tow'rds the fertile vallies. 
Passing near the birchwood tree- 
And a hat of green has he. 



102 

'Neath an oak, his path commanding. 
Were two smiling maidens standing : 

'^ God be with you !" said the swain ; 

And they laugh'd, and laugh'd again. 

One was white as dovelet flying. 
With the snows of winter vying : 

And the other twitter'd* there 

Like a swallow in the air. 

" Come, young shepherd ! we will take thee 
To the mountain ; we will make thee 

Love's own couch ; thy flocks shall stray— 
And what matter ? — where they may." 

So they seized him — so they led him 
To the mountain, there to wed him ; 

Flocks and folds — and w^here are they ? 

Canst thou tell the shepherd ? Nay ! 



* The bohemian word SWJtOriti, conveys admirably tli<- 
sound of the swallow. 



103 

Hozborene stare zam'ky. 

Maiden's song for the dead. 

The very towers that time destroys. 
Time may rebuild as built before ; 
But ruins of departed joys— 
These can be rear'd to joy no more. 

The forests which the axe hath laid 
In dust, may spring to life anew ; 
But — have the dying or the dead 
A germ which spring can waken too ? 

My love is wrapp'd in mortal clay — 
But were a granite bed his own. 
With mine own nails I'd dig my way. 
Through even the hardest granite-stone. 



* Literally, " I would [make my way] to him with my 
nails through the hard rock." 



104 



Pre krasne hwezdicky. 



Death Song of the Horseman. 



Ye stars ! so small, so bright. 
So beautiful, whose ray 

Has led me thro' the night — 
Has lighted all my way. 

And thou, most fair of all. 
The first — the morning star. 

At whose awakening call, 
I sought my love afar. 

Thou moon, in clouds bedight. 

So distantly above. 
Thou bringest to my sight 

My pure and distant love. 



105 

My father oft to me. 

While yet an infant, said : — 
" Poor boy ! his lot will be 

To fare on bitter bread." 

My mother o'er me sigh'd. 

And said — " Poor child ! for him, 
Life's cup will be supplied 

From parch'd and scanty stream." 

And oft my brother's tongue 

Said — " Luckless boy ! take heed. 

For, O ! thou hast been flung 
Upon a sorry steed." 

My sister too replied — 
All love, all kindness she : 

'' The sabre at his side 
Hangs not becomingly." 

My friends cried — " O, beware. 

And ne'er to battle go : 
For pain and death are there. 

Thou may'st not meet a foe." 
F 5 



101^ 

I WENT to battle — met 
A foe — and now I die : 

To her I worshipped — yet 
I turn my dying eye. 

I SIT upon my tomb^ 

My friends are far away : 

And ere they know my doom. 
The worm will seize its prey. 

Then grave a grave for me. 
Within yon grassy wood. 

For there my love shall be. 
In evening's solitude. 

! IF that angel hie 

With gentlest greetings there : 

1 ask no tear — no sigh — 

But one— one hallowed prayer* 



107 



Bylate stezicka slassana. 

Upon yon bridge a maiden see. 

She weeps — she weeps — how bitterly ! 

And lo ! her lover passes by. 

With proud and with reproachful eye. 

" O come, on Sabbath morn to me. 
And I will wreathe a wreath for thee." 

Morn came — he came not to the maid. 
And then the flowery wreath decay 'd. 

The rain rush'd down — the flowrets died. 
Because the youth his vow belied. 



The floweret. 

IT shines so brightly — 
O I saw it shine, 

1 will pluck the floweret. 
And it shall be mine. 



108 

No ! it was no floweret, 
'Twas my clierish'd, one — = 

And he shone so brightly. 
For with love he shone. 

Husicka diwoka letela z wysoka. 

A wiLU goose from the heavens dismounting,. 
Drank the fresh water of our fountain. 

Drank the fresh stream and left the troubled :* 
My thoughts of love for thee were doubled. 

My thoughts for thee — for thee, my lover ! 
All else I pass regardless over. 

Fain would I wed — but they impede me ; 
And say — that love to want will lead me. 

To want and woe — no bread — no baking — 
No gathering hay — no harvest-making. 

That want shall waste— and labor fag me — 
And by my hair my husband drag me. 



* The Slavonians frequently employ imagery of this sort 
an introduction to their poetry. 



109 

Mesjcek swjtj. 

The moon is descending^ 
My spirit is tending 
To thee, my beloved, 
And only to thee ! 

I SEE her returning. 
And fearing and mourning. 
That never — O ! never. 
Her youth shall she see. 

The moon is departed ; 
I fly, eager-hearted. 
That no one may ravish 
My maiden from me. 

Ye doves ! that are plighted— 
Ye clouds ! by heaven lighted> 
Watch over my maiden. 
My advocates be ! 



110 



Za tjm nasjm dworem. 

The Son, 

Behind our cottage you have seen 

Two oaks that spread their branches green. 

Their verdant heads uprear ; 
But have you seen, those trees between, 
A maid, with eyes of dazzling sheen. 

Waxing in beauty there ? 

The Mother, 

O, SILLY boy ! — such dreams dismiss — - 
List to my counsel — list — though this 

Is counsel hard to bear — 
Love's poison is — the bane of bliss — 
There's canker in its sweetest kiss, 

And paleness and despair^ 



Ill 



Gedna hodina. 



'TwAS past the midnight bell^ 
One hour, and only one, 

I wandered with my love ; 
We wander 'd, and alone 

We wander'd thro* the grove — • 

And now — sweet maid I farewell, 
God's blessing be thine own ! 

The heav'n has many a star, 
In such a night as this is ; 

But all, when counted, are 
Far fewer than thy kisses ; 

They are not — nor shall be. 

While time is time— to me 
So bright as thou, by far. 



112 

There's many a temple high^ 

That towers above the plain — 

But oftener times have I 

On thy soft bosom lain. 

Than all those temples number'd : 

I'll slumber where I've slumber'd. 
Till earth is whelm'd again. 

Ktera ge panenka stydliwa. 

The shame-faced maiden fain would shy 
The modest youth — but ah ! she knows 

He saw her — and she hurries by. 
Deep-blushing like a scarlet rose. 

O, SILLY youth — are you afraid. 

And could you not your thoughts disguise ? 
For when you pass'd the blushing maid. 

You pull'd your klobnk^ o'er your eyes. 



Hat. 



113 

Ach holka, holka. 

O, MAIDEN, maiden. 

Thou hast black eyes : 
Will they deceive me. 

Will they despise ? 

" No ! were they blacker. 

Never would they. 
Never— despise thee. 

Never betray !" 

Crows gather acorns 

On the oak-tree ; 
God alone knoweth 

Whose she shall be. 

Whose but mine — she swore 

Mine to be of yore ; 
'Twas behind our dwelling, she 
Swore it 'neath the greenwood tree. 
Mine alone to be 



114 

Come — be the meadows 

Love's vernal scene — 
And I will buy thee 

Garments of green. 

Delicate garments. 

Which thou shalt wear 
Short and becoming — 

Speed we, my fair ! 

Speed we o'er mountain. 

Valley, and hill — 
Our nuptial music 

Shall be a rill. 

And the green-turf, love. 

Our bed of down ; 
There will we slumber. 

Loving — alone — 

Thou — thou mine own ! 

The last verse is not in Celakowsky's printed 



115 



collection : he has had the kindness to supply it 
in MS. It is this : 



Trawa zelena 
Nase perina, 
Na tey budem spati 
A se milowati 
Holka rozmila. 



Kdyz sem plawal pres more. 

I BATHED me in the open sea, 

A nightingale flew by, 
Dropp'd a red-rose leaf over me. 

And, singing, sought the sky. 

I SEIZED it with a wondering thought. 
And found — O bliss ! O bliss ! — 

The little blushing rose-leaf brought 
My maiden's virgin kiss. 



116 

Alas ! fond dream ! that maid is dead — 

The gard'ner plucks a rose. 
And pluck'd — it fades, it hangs its head. 

And pale and paler grows. 

I pluck'd a rose — that rose I plac'd 

Upon my breast — the gem. 
My eager breast a moment grac'd. 

Then sunk upon its stem. 



Kdes holubicko blaudila. 

O WHENCE dost thou come — thou golden dove. 
Thy wings are weary — thy plumes are wet- 
Whence, wanderer ! dost thou come ? 
" All over the seas I sought my love. 
And I am hasting — hasting yet. 
To our own — our mountain home." 



117 



Ma zlata stezicko uzaucka. 

Ye sweet, sad scenes ! so dark, so dear. 
So lovely once — so hateful now — 

why, while wandering, wandering here. 
Do grief and gloom my spirits bow ? 

1 TOTTER o'er that narrow way. 
Where erst I tripp'd so lightly on ; 

My lover's steed was wont to stray. 
In these green fields — but he is gone. 

With what intensity of bliss, 

I hail'd the smiling earth and sky ; 

Scenes ! that were then all blessedness. 
Why turn'd to desolation ? why ? 

The flowers have droop'd — the light is fled ; 

The fruit hath fallen from the tree ; 
The wreath I wrought to bind his head. 

The stream hath wafted to th€ sea. 



^i#* 



118 



The last verse is not in Celakowsky's printed 
collection : he has been so kind as to communi- 
cate it in MS, 

Kam pak's dal mug mily' kyticku 

Co gsem ti wcera dala ! 
" Trhal gsem u reky orechy;, 

Ona mne uplowala." 

He comes ! he comes ! O see, mother ! see ! 

He comes in his splendid car ; 
A feather behind his hat has he— 

Like an emperor from the war. 

O SEE he has taken the feather'd pen. 

He has opened an unwrit scroll : 
Will he write my name — which again and again. 

He has written on his soul ? 

While the art of writing was possessed by few, 
the accomplishment was deemed by the many a 
special mark of distinction. 



119 



W zelenem hagecku. 

Two lovers seek the wood together. 
For shelter — when a mighty bough, 

Biven by the fierce and stormy weather. 
Falls — and they both are corpses now. 

'Tis well ! their fate is bliss — far sweeter 
That both should die — than one remain 

To mourn — a solitary creature — 

Thro' wearying, wasting years in vain. 

Coz se mne, ma mila, hezka zdas. 

Marriage Song. 

When tlie bride has entered the wedding-car, a small flag is 
wared over her, and the women sing, 

Beloved ! how beautiful ! beautiful ! she 
More beautiful yet at the altar will be : 
" Then take me, dear youth ! 
O take me, and see 
My beauty shall brighten in love and in truth. 



120 



I 



" O TAKE me — O take me — thy bride shall become 
The guardian — the mother — the charm of thy home 

Will rise with the moriij, 

Give the cattle their corn, 
And the spindle my hands shall for ever adorn." 



Zito zito, zitecko ! 



Blade of wheat ! thou golden blade. 
Who shall harvest thee ? 

For my lover lingers far- 
Will not come to me. 

Blade of wheat ! thou golden blade, 
WTio shall bind thee round ? 

For my lover lingers far — 
Where shall he be found ? 

Mother ! mother ! mother mine ! 

Changeful is my heart. 
Cleanse, O mother mine, away 

All its fickle part. 



121 

On my feet my slippers seem. 

Made of heavy lead — 
Mother, mother, mother mine ! 

I would hide my head. 

Young and radiant oak-tree, why. 
Young and verdant oak ? 

Why dost turn on me — on me 
Such an angry look ? 

" Nay ! no angry look on thee 

Turn I — yet I may 
Mourn thou art so fickle — maid ! 

So the people say." 



Ty hwez dicko tmawa ! 

Mournful star ! in heaven's blue deep, 
Tell a weeper^ dost thou weep ? 

Dost thou weep o'er woes and fears — 
Golden sparks should be thy tears. 
If alive to sympathy. 



122 

Star of melancholy ! mourn, 
Light for me thy midnight urn ; 
If some tale of sorrow swept 
By thee — often hast thou wept, 
Mournful starlet ! weep with me ! 

Kdyz gsem sel od mily. 

I LEFT my maiden to repair 

With other maids to morning-prayer 

And as I pass'd, the cuckow spoke. 

From the green oak : 

Coo-coo — coo-coo ! 

" O thou my golden, golden dove !" 

Coo-coo — coo-coo ! 

" Stretch out thy hand, my love." 

Kauknete matinko. 

Mother ! look round thee. 

Round thee and see. 
All the youths struggling. 

Struggling for me. 



]23 

Fierce is the struggle, 
Eager and wild : 

Does thy heart gladden ? 
I am thy child ! 



Gaketo laucenj. 

O SAD farewell ! 
And who shall tell 
The tides of grief that in our bosoms swell ? 

I 

Yes ! we must part. 
And grief's worst smart 
Asks — Has he — has he a forgetful heart ? 

Forgetful? No! 
For that were woe, 
Peace to o'erwhelm — and hope to overthrow. 

O WHY oppress, 
O why distress 
My soul — ^by breathing of — forgetfulne^s ? 

G 2 



J 




124 
'Tis a light thought. 
By coldness taught ; 
A foolish fancy — that betokeneth nought. 

There's many an eye 
Asks wond'ringly. 
Where is their wonted gladness fled — and why ? 

Where is it gone. 
Thou blessed one ! 
Flown o'er those hills — ^beyond those forests flown. 

I scatter'd tares — 
I gather'd cares. 
And all the noisome weeds the fetid morass bears. 

The earth whirls on : 
I stand alone. 
Stretch out my hand in vain— and vainly grieve 
, and groan. 



125 



Powez ty mne, hwezdicko ma. 

Say, my lovely star ! O say. 
Art thou gloomy — art thou gay ? 

Art thou gloomy — O be bright — 
Pour on me thy streams of light ! 

Pour thy streams of light on me. 
And awaken memory. 



Gak ziwa gsem newidela na buku zaludu. 

I NEVER on a beechen tree, perceiv'd an acorn grow — 
Did ever youth desert a maid to wed a widow ? No ! 
O look upon that maiden's cheeks so rosy, fresh, and 

fair. 
And see the widow dragging on, in solitary care. 



126 



I NEVER knew a juniper that flourisVd on the mead — 
Did ever maid desert a youth, a widower to wed ; 
Look on that youth's all-healthy cheeks, so rosy, 

fresh, and fair. 
And see the widower dragging on his solitary care. 



Pase owcacka w zelenem hagecku. 

The shepherdess within a sunny grove. 
In the black wood, a shepherd — watch'd their sheep, 
'^ O come to me, sweet love ! 
Come hither ! thou shalt keep 
Joy in my bosom treasur'd deep." 



Wyslo slunjcko za horau. 

When the sun soars yon mountain above. 
That at even sunk brightly below, 

And my eyes meet the smiles of my love. 
What raptures my heart overflow ! 



127 

Where my lover abides, I abide, 
When absent, I summon him near ; 

When far, to his presence 1 glide. 
For him all my jewels I wear. 

Does he seek the green vale — does he lead 
His charger to graze and to rest ? 

I gather the grass for his steed. 

The freshest and greenest and best. 

At evening with him I retreat 

To the pear-tree, and gathering there 

The corn-ears, he binds round the wheat, 
Till labour hath brighten'd his hair.* 



Matko, maticko. 

Mother ! sweet mother mine. 
Gold is that heart of thine : 

* Gen se mu bleyskaly wlasky — till his hair shines. 



128 

My lover is coming on faithful steed^, 

Make ready the chamber, make ready the hall^ 
They must be swept and garnish'd all ; 

And he shall find a welcome indeed. 

Mother ! sweet mother mine I 

Gold is that heart of thine : 
Go forth, my mother, the youth to meet, 

I will make ready the chambers and hall — 

Yes ! I will sweep and garnish them all, 
And we will give him a welcome sweet. 

Mother ! sweet mother mine ! 

Gold is that heart of thine ; 
My love is fording the running water ; 

I see him threading the narrow way — 

He hastens hither — O misery — nay ! 
He has taken the path to the Rychtar's daughter.* 



* za tau rychtarowic. The Rychtar (german Rlchter) is 
the village magistrate. 



129 



Gdi ma mila. 

You say that beauty is a rose. 

And you are right — I cannot doubt it ; 
Show me the garden where it grows. 

And I will never be without it. 

I'll pluck it every day — and be 

Fresh as the buds the dews drop over, 

A never-fading flower to thee — 
Be thou to me — a faithful lover. 



Na Tureckem pomezj. 

Upon the turkish boundary, 

A watchman hath one child alone, 

O God ! O God ! what bliss 'twould be. 
If I could call that girl mine own. 
g5 



130 

I SENT a letter to the maid. 

And sent a ring — " The ring is thine; 
So give me, sweet, thy love," I said, 

"And leave thy father's house for mine/ 

The letter reach'd the maid, she ran. 
And placed it in her father's hand : 

" Read, O my father ! if thou can. 
And mate thy daughter understand." 

Her father read it — not a word 
He said — ^but sigh'd — as he arose — 

'* O Lord of mercy \ righteous Lord !" 
What heavy, heavy sighs were those. 

" My golden father !* tell me why 
Such sighs — such sadness — never pain 

Heav'd from the breast a heavier sigh — 
What did that wretched sheet contain ?' 



* Mug zlaty pant^to : — the common Slavonian term of 
endearment. 



131 

" Sweet daughter, I have cause to groan. 
When misery on ray heart is pil'd ; 

A turk demands thee for his own — 
He asks thy father for his child." 

" My golden father ! give me not — 
O, if thou love me — do not so ! 

I will (^not leave thy watchman's cot — 
Nay ! with the turk I dare not go. 

" I TELL, thee what I'll do — 111 make 
A coffin, where I will be laid. 

And there my seeming rest I'll take. 
And thou shalt say — The maidhis dead." 

And so she did — the moslem o'er 

The threshold sprung — " Ill-fated maid ! 

O God of mercy and of power ! 

The maid is dead ! the maid is dead." 

The mourning turk his 'kerchief drew. 
And wip'd his wet and weeping eyes : 

And hast ihou left me — left me too — 
My precious pearl — my gemlike prize }" 



132 

He bought himself a mourning dress, 

A dress of rosy * tafFety — 
" Why hast thou left me in distress — 

Of flowers the sweetest flower to me."* 

He bid the death-bells loudly toUt 
From every Turkish mosk — and ye 

Might hear the heavy grave-song roll 
From Turkey even to Moldawy.J 

The turk sped homeward — and the maid 
Her coffin left— for purer air: 

'' Now God be with thee, turk !" she said. 
And truth was in the maiden's prayer. 



* Rose — tlie colour of the musselmans' mourning. 

t Hrana. — The mark of reverence paid to the dead. For 
three days after their decease, the bells are tolled unceasingly 
from twelve to one o'clock. ; 



J Do Moldawy — Moldavia. 



133 



K dyz gsem sla gedenkrat pres hagecek. 

Through the green grove my footsteps stray ; 

Alas ! they stray: 
I met a sportsman on the way. 

The sun shines out in warmth above ; 

Ah ! warm above : 
My heart it blossoms forth in love.* 

And there we sit till eve draws near ; 

Ah ! eve draws near — 
The sportsman shoots a wandering deer. 

It is no deer — it is a doe ; 

Alas ! a doe — 
O maiden ! thou hast planted woe. 



* Tenkrat me srdecko Mskau kwetlo — Then my 
heart flowered in love (amore florebat). 



134 

Time flies — and soon the grass is mown ; 

Alas ! 'tis mown — 
Would I had ne'er that sportsman known ! 

She wash'd the linen by the stream ; 

Alas ! the stream : 
And bitterly upbraided him. 

Before I met that sportsman there ; 

Alas ! 'twas there — 
I was a rose — all pure and fair. 

Beauty and purity are gone ; 

Alas ! are gone — 
He is gone too — the faithless one ! 

He to another breast hath crept ; 

Alas ! hath crept — 
And then the maiden wept and v/ept. 

Ah ! go not to the grove, ye fair ; 

Alas ! ye fair — 
For ye may meet a sportsman there. 



135 



Pod wasjmi okny. 

The stream 'neath your window 

Pursues its calm course ; 
Then come my beloved. 
And water my horse. 

" Nay ! nay !" said the maid^ 
" I am but a poor child. 
And I am afraid." 

There grows near your window, 

A green olive tree ! 
And let me, sweet maiden ! 
Partake it with thee. 

" Nay ! nay !'* said the maid 
'^ I'm but a poor child. 
And I am afraid." 



There blooms near your window. 

How many a rose ! 
And why art thou mourning 

Thy premature woes ? 



136 

" I mourn not ! O no ! 
Yet sweet 'twere to me> 
Could my eyelids overflow." 

Why hang down your eyelids. 

As if lull'd in sleep. 
Your mother more caution 
Desires you to keep. 

Child thou art to blame — 

Retire thee, retire ! 

The neighbour's cry " shame." 

" O NO ! ray gold-mother. 
Of shame do not tell — 
I said to my lover 

Farewell ! and farewell !" 
She broke the pledg'd vow. 
Their hearts were both rent. 
He unsheaths his sword now."* 

* i. e. He is gone to the wars. 



137 



Kdyby se tatjnek newadil. 

But for my father's angry talking, 
I'd frankly own that I was walking 
With one — whom he could not discover — 
Frown he or not — it was my lover. 

And if my father would not scold me,* 
I*d tell him what my lover told me ; 
And what he gave — a secret this is — 
Scold he or not — ^'twas love's sweet kisses. 

And if my father would not wonder 
I'd tear the secret's veil asunder — 
Wonder or not — my loverf made me 
A sweet and solemn vow to wed me. 



* Kdyhy gen tatjnek nebrankal — Brankati — a gentle scold- 
ing, not of ill -nature and anger, but rather of reproach. It i& 
derived from the crookling of doves. 

t Hoch — a word meaning equally youth, and lover. 



138 

He vow'd — sincere and eager-hearted — 
E'en while he kiss'd me as we parted. 
With thee he would not leave me longer^, 
But claim me when the wheat is stronger.* 



Nenj tak maticka dbala. 

O MOTHER ! thou art chang'd siace erst 
Thy love thine infant daughter nurst ; 
Sweet songs that infant daughter heard — 
Another babe is now preferr'd.t 

When I was weak and young and small, 

! thou wert love and kindness all ; 
Now if a youth but speak to me, 

1 hear reproachful words from thee. 



'■ Gen az psenicka se wymeta— When the barbs shoot 
from the ears of corn. 

t Hageg dewcatko malicky'. — Hageg is the expres- 
sion used by nurses as they rock the cradle. 



139 



Reproach me not — my mother, now ! 
But let me take the marriage vow — 
At love's soft name my bosom sighs. 
And love is bursting from mine eyes. 



Ga gsem Ceska hezaunka. 



I AM a bohemian maid. 

Blue eyed, fair and airy ; 
Would you know my name ? my name 

Is no name but Mary. 

What's to you if I have fled. 

Fled to love's embraces. 
Eaten hips of eglantine,* 

Slept in thorny places. 



Sjpek — tlie red hips of the wild rose. 



140 

What's to you, if I allow 
Youths of love to chatter ; 

Let them rattle at my door. 
Surely 'tis no matter ! 

I WILL marry — wherefore talk — 
Wherefore talk, my mother ; 

Am I yet a year too young ? 
Must I wait another ? 

No ! I'm young — and I am fair — 
Gay — ^blue-eyed and airy — 

Would you know the maiden's name, 
Sir ! her name is Mary ! 



Co ten ptacek stebeta. 

What means that cheating, chattering bird 

Upon the oaken tree ? 
" The maid a lover hath," I heard, 

" And yet so pale is she." 



141 

False bird ! thou liest — speak the truth, 
Or hide in shame thy head — 

For though 'tis true I love a youth, 
I am not pale, but red. 

False bird ! thou liest — I will go 
And stop thy chattering wholly ; 

A gun across my shoulder throw. 
And shoot thee for thy folly. 



Zala zuska u lesjcku. 

The maid was reaping on the mead. 
There came a knight on knightly steed — 
It was no knight — no knight, in truth. 
It was her own beloved youth. 

" Green is the lovely rosemary. 
Sweet maiden ! glad and joyful be ! 
From war's alarms thy youth shall rest 
Why sink thine eyes upon thy breast ?" 



142 

" Be green thou flowret of the tomb — 

O wretched is the maiden's doom. 

Three years I waited — lingering on — 
He came not, when three years were gone.' 

What didst thou here, sweet maiden ! say, 
Didst come to weep for one away ? 
And did thy blooming roses fade. 
When distance threw me in the shade ? 

"What did I? — Nothing — but despair; 

Sigh'd with the breezes of the air ; 
Wept with the melancholy dew — 
Love from the maiden's bosom flew — 
I am betroth'd — and wedded too."* 



* Tlie rosemary is the nuptial plant — and is introduced as 
tlie symbol of marriage. 

This pretty, simple song has never been published. M. 
Celakowsky sends it to me in MS. — one of the countless 
couitesies for which I have to thank him. 



143 



Bad householdry. 

Two old cocks within the house. 

And a dog and cat ; 
Stony bread, and blunted knife, 
Thoughtful husband — wicked wife — 
When such blessings dwell together. 
Tell me, man of patience, whether 

Patience tolerates that. 



Bad weather. 

The waters against the waters are splashing, 
The winds are against the windows dashing ; 
Come, maiden I whose eyes with light are flashing, 
Come to the window, and look at heaven ! 

No ! not on a day so dark as this is— 
No ! not to the window — sweet maiden of blisses— - 
But come to the door, and give me two kisses. 
And 1 will give thee seven. 



144 

The lark. 

The lark ! the lark ! though light and small, 

An ever-busy creature. 
Is gaiety and gladness all. 

Through every freak of nature : 
The morn-light — eve-light hear her sing, 

With all heaven's smiles upon her — 
And we've one hand our glass to swing. 

And one for her we honor — 
So while the lark is joyous, we 

May pass existence joyously. 

The apple. 

I SAW it ripen, saw it redden 

Upon the garden tree — 
And who shall gather thee, sweet maiden ! 

O, who shall gather thee. 

I CANNOT reach so high, sweet maiden ! 

I cannot reach so high — < 
Will distance love's delusions deaden ? 

Farewell ! — I go— I'll try. 



Born 1766. 



K. S. SNAIDR (in German Schneider) is one 
of the liveliest and most humorous of the bohemian 
poets. He had some reputation as a writer of 
german verse, at a time when the language and 
literature of Bohemia appeared rapidly hastening 
to decay. But he abandoned the teutonic field to 
labor in that of Slavonia, and he has received 
marks of distinction as a poet in his vernacular 
tongue, which never honored, and never would 
have honored him, as a german writer. Doubtless 
the true instrument of poetry is the language 
taught us in childhood — the language in which 
alone the finer shades of sentiment and passion 
can find appropriate expression. Snaidr has 
h2 



148 

gracefully expressed himself on this subject (in his 
Okus, p. 138) in a poem which he calls Lahutj 
zpew — or the Swan-song. 

Beda ! ze se mi tak pozde _■ 

Muza ceska wygewila ! f I 

Ze mne teprw na okragi | 

Hrobu zpewcem vcinila : 
Ze az na me mary ze swych f 

Wennych ruzi wenec dawa 
O mky, giz w temny saumrak 

Na rozchodnau mne pod aw a ! 

Alas ! that the bohemian muse 
Should call so late upon the singer, 

When on the borders of the grave, 
A little while his footsteps linger. 

She brings a wreath to deck my bier. 
When years all mortal hopes dissever. 

And beckons to detain me here. 

When evening shades grow thick for ever. 

Snaidr is now justiciarius in Smidar. 



149 

Pospesste sem pacholatka. 

THE BELL. 

From a popular superstition. 

1. 

Come hither, youths ! and in your train 

Your maidens bring : 
The old man o'er his hoary lyre. 

Old songs will sing. 
The spirits of departed days 

Again appear ; 
And sounds re-echo'd from the past. 

Burst on his ear. 

Near Hrub-Kozoged's village stream. 

An ancient well, 
Has held from immemorial time, 

A hidden bell. 



150 

That bell is veii'd from human eyes. 

For ever there ; 
And never shall its voice again 

Summon to prayer. 

Once — only once — in centuries gone. 

That awful beU 
Pour'd on an ancient woman's ear 

Its marvellous knell. 
She went to wash her flaxen threads 

In that old well — 
Her threads had bound the bell around. 

She shriek'd — and fell. 

She shriek'd and fell — and long she lay 

In speechless dread — 
She dropp'd the threads, and dropp'd the bell. 

And frighted fled. 
And then the bell, with fearful sound, 

Sunk in the well ; 
And hill and forest echo'd round 

Its fateful kneU : 
'' John, John ! is for the greyhound gone."* 

* Jan, Jan za clirta dan. — These words are intended to 
convey the sound of a bell. 



151 
2. 

The lord of Hrub-Kozoged's lands. 

On swift-pac'd steed is homeward gone. 
With John, who waits his lord's commands— 

His huntsman bold, his faithful John. 
His brow is like a tempest cloud. 

With angry scowls he looks around — 
*' Where is my greyhound — where ?" aloud 

He asks — " Say where my favorite hound ?" 

And three long wearying days they track 

Hill, wood, and every wonted place. 
And no one brings the greyhound back. 

And none the greyhound's path can trace. 
Kozoged's master homeward turns. 

As death and midnight dark and drear, 
And mourning sighs, and sighing mourns — 

" Where is my fav'rite greyhound — where ?' 

He spoke — and as he spoke — behold 
An ancient witch on crutches pass'd. 

One-eyed and hunch-back'd, haggard, old, 
Fierce as a screech-owl — lo ! she cast 



152 

A belli sli light from fiendish eye ; 

Parch'd skin and bone her wither'd hands. 
She call'd — 'twas like the raven's cry. 

Hot— hoarse — the knight astonish'd stands. 

" Stop ! stop ! sir knight ! arrest thy steed. 

And bid thy train their steeds arrest. 
For I can do a friendly deed. 

And drive the storm-clouds from thy breast. 
I know what thou hast lost — I know 

Where thy poor hound is wandering now : 
But 'tis in vain to tell thee so. 

Thou art incredulous, I vow ! 

" Deliver me thy John — and I, 

Thy fav'rite hound will bring to-morrow. 
And dost thou wish to ask me why ? 

Know that the sorceress can borrow 
Youth from youth's blood — the stars above 

Have told it — I shall be, in truth, 
A maid of beauty and of love, 

Wash'd in the blood-streams of the youth." 



153 

The youth he chang'd as pale as death, 

Few words his anguish could impel ; 
'Twixt hope and fear — with stifled hreath. 

Upon his trembling knees he fell — 
" O, gentle master ! hear ! I pray ! 

O, listen to mine urgent suit : 
Give not thy servant's life away, 

His life so precious, for a brute." 

But other care, and other thought. 

Across his master's bosom fly ; 
John's pale, cold cheeks he heeded nought. 

But turn'd away his careless eye. 
" Give me my hound at morning dawn," 

So to the witch the knight replied, 
" And huntsman John shall be thine own — 

I swear it — so be satisfied." 

3. 

The morn is blushing thro' the orient gates, 
The witch is, with the hound, the castle nigh. 

The sleepless youth his wretched sentence waits. 

He slept not— but prepar'd his soul to die. 

h5 



154 

Yet once again he souglit the knight, and pour'd 
His prayer for mercy — " Hear the wretched one ; 

Give not thy servant to the witch, kind lord ! 
From life and sunshine banish not thy John." 

'TwAs vain — the greyhound's bark hadreach'd that ear, 

Where voice of human sorrow idly fell : 
He hugg'd the witch, he hugg'd his greyhound dear, 

And order'd a rejoicing festival. 
And to the witch, when beam'd the evening star. 

He gave his servant fettered like a slave ; 
Two dragons, harness'd to the death-black car. 

Bore witch and victim to her mountain-cave. 

4. 

Five weeks had hardly glided by. 

So fast they glide. 
When the lov'd hound — so dearly bought. 

Died — aye, he died ! 
His master, furious, tore his hair. 

And groan'd with pain ; 
Call'd on his hound, his John — he call'd 

And groan'd again. 



155 

At last the gentle lapse of time 

Quietly stealing. 
Brought to his over-passion'd heart 

Some human feeling. 
The cruel worm of conscience gnaw'd 

His breast within ; 
And John's dim shadow seated there, 

Recall'd the sin ! 

'^ My John ! my John !" he often cried, 

" Thou innocent ! 
Thou, by the madness of thy lord. 

From life uprent : 
O bend thy head from highest heaven. 

If there thou live. 
And pitying him who pitied not — 

My crime forgive." 

At length he rear'd a little church. 

To wash his guilt ; 
And near, a belfry tower of wood. 

Repentant built. 



156 

And there of purest silver hung 

A sacred bell. 
Which daily — never ceasing — rang 

John's funeral knell. 

But from the very earliest day. 

It struck that knell. 
The hearer's teeth all gnash'd with fear ; 

So terrible — 
So terrible its sound — so loud ; 

No silver sound — 
But the church trembled at the noise, 

And all around — 
" John, John — is for the greyhound gone !' 



5. 



Kozoged's lord was told the story. 
And bitter were the tears he shed ; 

He doff 'd his robes of knightly glory. 
Tore all his honors from his head : 



1^ 



157 

A coarse, rough robe of hair-cloth made him. 
Which from that day unchanged he wore, 

Then to the wooden tower he sped him. 
To be the watchman of the tower. 

And lo ! his hand uplifted, seizeth 

The bell-rope — and begins to loll — 
No more the worm of conscience teazeth 

His half emancipated soul. 
No more the bell those awful noises 

Pours — which so many hearts had riven ; 
It sounds like angels' silver voices. 

When echoed through the courts of heaven. 

One only vesper-knell was sounded. 

The aged watchman toU'd no more : 
Death came — and there with peace surrounded. 

He sank upon the belfry floor : 
The frown upon his brow departed — 

Some gentle hand had chas'd the frown. 
And there he slumber'd — peaceful-hearted. 

All guilt forgiven the guilty one. 



158 

6. 

And many, many ages pass'd away. 

Their gloomy shades o*er our Bohemia flinging, 
That church in melancholy ruins lay. 

The tower o'erturn d — the bell had ceas'd its ringing : 
Yet when that church and tower in fragments fell, 

A heavenly angel, clad in light, appearing, 
Convey'd the silver relic to the well — 

Zizkians ! that bell will toll not in your hearing. 

From that same hour the crystal waters play 

Above the silver bell — in silence sleeping — 
There come the thirsty sheep-flocks, as they stray. 

And there the revellers of the chase are keeping 
Their court — that silver bell in deep repose 

Lies cold and voiceless ages without number ; 
The ancient woman in the water throws 

Her flaxen threads — and wakes it from its slumber. 

'TwAs the last time its awful accents broke — 

^' John, John— is for the greyhound gone," it mutter'd. 
And never more to mortal ears it spoke. 
Nor noise, nor word, nor whisper has it utter'd. 



159 

The neighbours seek the well — their pitchers fill. 
They wash their flax— and fear pursues them never ; 

They know the bell's mysterious tongue is still. 
And that it rests beneath the wave for ever. 

7. 
Forget not now, my children all, 

The silver bell : 
For here I end the song I sing, 

The tale I tell. 
To keep ye listening longer, were 

Nor kind, nor wise. 
For slumbers bend your weary head. 

And dim your eyes. 

Yet ere you leave— one passing word. 

Our song may suit : 
O ! trifle not a soul away 

Just for a brute. 
Bear sorrow's sting with fortitude, 

Whate'er befall ; 
And, O be gentle, kind, and good 

To all— to all. 



160 

Now sleep in blessedness — till morn 

Brings its sweet light : 
And hear the awful voice of God 

Bid ye " Good night \" 
Yet ere the hand of slumber close 

The eye of care^ 
For the poor huntsman's soul's repose. 

Pour out one prayer. 

Noworecenka, 18^3, p. 59-69- 



^tttont'n ^mfftmvtv* 



BoEN 1769— Died 1820. 



i 



ANTONIN Puchmayer was born in Teyn, a 
town on the river Vltava, on the 17th January, 
1769 — and died at Prague, in 1820. He was the 
most efficient and zealous among those bohemians 
who endeavoured to re-create a taste for the lan- 
guage and literature of his country, and the collec- 
tion of Poems of which he was the editor, was 
the first fruits of a renewed attention to the sub- 
ject. He was a philologist too of considerable 
merit, and had a little before his death completed 
a Russian Grammar, dedicated to the empress 
mother, which she acknowledged by the present of 



164 



a costly ring — an honor which found no recipient, 
for he was dead when it arrived. He translated 
sundry works from both french and german. 
He was latterly an ecclesiastic of Radnice. 

Of Puchmayer's collection of bohemian poetry, 
the Ode to Zizka is undoubtedly the most remark- 
able piece. A romantic interest attaches to this 
hero of his nation, and his zeal for reform has 
already consecrated his name in every protestant 
country. 

Puchmayer's volumes, though not distinguished 
by great poetical excellence, were undoubtedly the 
principal instrument in awakening the slumbering 
spirit of the bohemians, and gathering it round 
their language and their songs. For nearly two 
centuries the bohemian tongue had been silent ; 
and though its earliest renovated accents were not 
of the highest eloquence, it is impossible not to 
watch with sympathy the earnest and patriotic 
attempt to revive the feelings of independence and 
dignity which do not abandon high-minded indi- 
viduals in their adversity, and still less high- 
minded nations. 

Zizka's history, which may be well studied in 



165 



Pelzel's volumes, is full of soul-stirring passages. 
He has been compared to Hannibal for the sagacity 
and variety of his stratagems, and the extraordinary 
readiness with which he created to himself resources 
in circumstances of doubt and diflBculty. Like 
other great men, and especially like those greatest 
of men, who have devoted themselves, and sacri- 
ficed themselves to an unsuccessful popular cause, 
he has been delivered over to ages of calumny, 
from which some after and more enduring ages of 
glorious fame will rescue his memory. To the 
name of Zizka, rebel attaches — to that of John 
Hus, heretic — to that of George Podebrad, usurper. 
Time w^ill tear away the scrolls which falsehood 
has attached to their histories — and write Patriot 
— Reformer— Hero :•— and the words will be in- 
delible. 



166 

ODE on J. Zlzka von Trotznow, 

Kdo zwlaste predcj w bogi nad wlastence. 

Who rears his country's fair renown. 

Shall earn a patriot's lofty praise — 
Yes ! he shall wear a laurel crown. 

And him shall sing the poet's lays ; 

What prouder fame, what greener bays 
Can history offer ? — ^be his meed 

Eternal laud within the shrine. 

Lighted by glory's lamp divine. 
That every triumph, every deed 

Thro' everlasting years may shine. 

ZizKA ! Bohemia's chief — arise ! 

Of murdered* Hus th' avenger thou ! 
Thou hast o'erwhelm'd thine enemies 

In the fierce battle-field, and now 

They perish in the dust below. 

* It cannot be forgotten that the emperor Sigmund gave a 
*' letter of safety," written with his own hand, to John Hus, 



I 



167 

And the whole world has seen how great 

A patriot's victory may be ; 

When arm'd, Bohemia ! — arm'd for thee* 
(O laurels on thy bidding wait. 

To crown thee for eternity !) 

And see ! what crowded german bands- 
Steeds clamp and weapons clang— from Rhine 

And Oder's thickly-peopled lands ; 
And mountain-warriors there combine 
From distant Alp and Appenine : 

Hungarians too — and neighbouring poles. 
And practised saxons — tell us why 
Ye lift your swords, your lances high ? — 

! popish briefs— and popish bulls 
Have preach'd of our apostacy. 



when he went to the council of Constance. " No man is 
bound to keep a promise made to a heretic." — And Sigmund, 
that imperial cold-blooded murderer — who thus justified the 
perfidy of which he was the willing instrument, was one of 
the pinks of chevaliers— one of the models of knighthood — of 
his day. 



i 



168 

Like blackest locust-clouds they come. 

Our own Bohemia to enslave; 
And who— from such a storm — our home — 

Our country can protect or save ? 

For what avail the wise or brave ? 
Who can resist the torrent's sway ? 
' When they are nigh we disappear — 

It is not doubt — it is not fear ; 
They drink the rivers on their way. 

And every where their banners rear. 

Thy voice, re-echoed o'er the land. 
Wakes all Bohemia at thy name ; 

And every heart — and every hand 
Are quicken'd by the living flame 
Of courage — but what lust of fame 

What mad ambition lur'd our foes — 
We came — we look'd — our hero then 
Summon'd his bands of chosen men. 

And as the storm the surge-scurf blows 
W'e scatter'd all their might again. 



Still Zatetz's plains are bleak and bare. 
Still towers old Brodsky's mountain dell. 

Where, as the greyhound drives the hare. 
Thou, with thy Tabrites didst compel 
All — all to fly — but those who fell : 

Proud Praga looks on Zizkow's* hill. 
Still pleas'd that hallo w'd spot to see. 
Where Zizka leagued with victory — 

And dreams play'd round Bohemia still. 
The dreams of peace and liberty. 

Then Germany — who felt the shame 
Of Swabia's daring enterprise. 

And that our Hus — Bohemia's fame- 
Had been the bloody sacrifice ; 
There, where the Rhine ao swiftly flies, 

Rais'd up her flag — thou saxon mound. 
Ye austrian hills, now witness bear. 
How, towering o'er each mountain there, 

Bohemia's lion roar'd around, 
Bohemia's banner flapp'd the air. 

* The hill where Zizka was encamped, was before this 
period, called Witkow 

X 



170 

Then glory, with her golden ray. 
And silver trumpets pour'd thy praise ; 

And wing'd her bright and rustling way 
O'er the wide world — thy fame to raise. 
And bid the nations on thee gaze. 

But with thy victories did she tell 
What deeds of darkness and of dread 
Were round those glorious victories spread, 

And that thy name had been the spell. 
From which all life and blessing fled ? 

ZizKA ! thy fame had blinded thee. 
And fortune, with accustom'd sneer. 

Had dregg'd her cup with treachery. 
And pour'd her poisons in thine ear. 
Whose valor came thy valor near ? 

Thou, like the illustrious Hannibal, 
When he, on Cannae's glorious day. 
Swept all the Roman hosts away. 

On thine own Cannae didst appal. 
And overwhelm Germania. 



171 

Thou liadst a glorious triumph then. 
When midst a whole world's envying. 

In victory's loud and joyous train. 
Thou didst thy golden booty bring. 
And on Bohemia's altars fling : 

How loudly was the welcome pour'd 
From every patriot Ceskian tongue, 
Man — child — youth — maiden — woman flung, 

To thee, thy country's son ador'd, 

The-wreaths their busy hands had strung. 

Why didst thou dip that sacred wreath, 

O Zizka ! in thy brothers' blood ? 
Why bow thee from thy height — beneath. 

And turn to evil all thy good ? 

Why didst thou loose thy savage brood 
On monks and nobles — ^in thy rage 

Give reins to riot — overthrow 

Castles and towers — and deaf to woe — 
Whelm all — and rear o'er all a stage. 

Where error and where crime might grow."^ 



* Zde powez skreys, tarn laupeze. — Here, heresy's 
seat — there, rapine's. 

I 2 



172 

Those ruins* — which seem curs'd — and frown 
As if some evil ghosts were there ; 

Where bravery scarce dares stay alone, 
O what a woeful page they are. 
Of man in passion's fierce career : 

The very winds that whistle thro'. 

Seem shuddering midst the gloomy pile : 
There spectres meet — and sigh awhile ; 

And as the screech-owls cry to-whoo ! 
The fiends of evil shriek and smile. 

* The finest ruins in Bohemia are those left bj Zizka. 



300tpff Suttgmann 

Born 1773. 



JOSEPH JUNGMANN was born on the 
18th June, 1773, at Hudlice, an obscure village. 
He is professor of poetry and oratory in the Acade- 
mical Gymnasium of Prague. His prose writings 
are highly esteemed, and his enthusiasm for his 
mother tongue has won him the special aiFection 
of his countrymen. It is to him that Kollar 
addresses his 66th sonnet : — 



Znam sie mnohau uslechtilan hlawa. 

Full many a noble-minded man I know, 

(As numerous here as in remoter lands). 

Our pride, our praise, near whom old glory stands. 

Binding past — future laurels round their brow — 



176 

To whom shall I direct the garland now ? 

I may not choose among those generous bands : — 

Yet one there is whom Slava's hearts and hands 

Would crown — and with one knee of homage bow. 

Favorite of all her races, and their priest ! 

Thine, quiet genius ! thine the crown shall be, 

Slavonia's glory shall encompass thee ! 

Thy name be heard — thy praise shall be confest. 

Long as Vletava's waters seek the sea, 

Jungmann ! on thee shall grateful Slava rest. 

His translations are numerous. His version of 
Paradise Lost is, without controversy, one of the 
most remarkable and most perfect that have 
hitherto appeared. His Slowesnost(Chrestomathia) 
is a very useful introductory book for the bohe- 
mian student. Many of his compositions have 
appeared in the literary journals of Bohemia. 



177 

Content. 

Ziwol mug gest garo tkwaucy. 

My life is like a flowery spring 
Of calmness, liberty, and peace ; 

I mount not high on passion's wing, 
I sink not deep in recklessness. 

And noisy joys, where'er they be. 

Have no attractive charms for me. 

The marble busts — the statues tall 
Of bronze, I envy not — be mine 

A simple home, whose snowy wall 
The smiling graces may enshrine. 

Tho' gold may deck the rich man's roof. 

It is not time nor sorrow-proof. 

Pomona dwells my cottage near. 
And leads sweet Flora in her hand; 

My trees the richest offerings bear — 

Uncoveted their treasures stand, 

i5 



1-8 

And in their falling leaves I see 
True lessons for humanity. 

The elms — as if obedient, bend 
Ov^er my roof — their shadows deep, 

A canopy of verdure lend. 

To curtain me in tranquil sleep ; 

And visions floating in the air. 

Are better than the dreams of care. 

And to the forest solitudes, • 
I fly to shield my quiet head. 

And the wild masters of the woods. 
Behold in me no tyrant dread; 

To me, the fierce and foolish chase. 

Is wearying discord and disgrace. 

A CHEERFUL guest of nature, I 
Want nor satiety have known. 

Mine is a blest sufficiency 

And freedom : — what is mine to own. 

And to enjoy — enough — no more, 

Meat — drink — and life glides calmly o'er. 



179 

When hours flow dully on in life, 
I bid some cheerful neighbor eome, 

And then mine own bohemian wife 

Gives him sweet welcome to our li(3me ; 

The smiles that on her visage shine 

Are all reflected back from mine. 

The morning of a summer day. 

Breaks forth in sweet serenity : 
And fair as roses are, and gay. 

The lovely world appears to me. 
'Tis by man's eye that world is clad 
In cheerful light, or darkness sad. 

I LOVE mankind — I love them well — 

Wise — foolish — weeds — flowers — gloom 
and mirth. 

Earth is to me — nor heaven nor bell — 
It is — what is it ? simply — earth ; 

Poor thoughtless wretch, by folly driven. 
Who calls his earth — or hell, or heaven. 



180 

A GROUP of children round me lead 
In dance and song the happy hours : 

As fair as flowers upon the mead. 
But sweeter far and lovelier flowers ; 

One flower — to him who knows its worthy 

Is a dropp'd star of heaven on earth. 

And so unauxious, undismay'd, 

I wait for death — and waiting chant 

My songs— and feel upon my head 
The sunshine of sweet peace — I want 

No joy — but, hope — as nature's guest. 

To die — and say — " Enough — I*m blest." 

PUCHMAYER, V. 65, 



m* ^* ^oTaift. 



Born 1788. 



MILOTA ZDIRAD POLAK was bom in 
Zasmuky the 29th February, 1788. He devoted 
himself from his youth to military studies and 
the military service, and was lately adjutant to 
Baron Roller. He twice accompanied the austrian 
troops to Italy, and remained some time in Naples, 
gathering up materials for an interesting work, 
which he published in 1820, entitled Cesta do 
Italie. But of his writings, his Wzesenost prjrody 
— Sublimities of nature — a lyrico-didactic poem, is 
best known. It evidences an exquisite sense of the 
beauties of creation, and is undoubtedly one of the 
most remarkable productions of the bohemian 
press. He now inhabits Vienna, where it is 
believed he is employed in braiding wreaths of 
the flowers he gathered under the bright suns of 
Italy. 



-^,-,„ — ,^— ^ - 



184 



Sil sem proso na sauwrati, nebudu ho zjti. 

I've sown the millet,* yet I dare not reap the millet 

sown, 
I've lov'd the maiden, and I shrink from calling her 

my own. 

To sow and reap not — love and keep not — strange 

and sad decree ; 
Sown, not gather'd — lov'd, not wedded — luckless 

doom for me. 

Beneath the ash tree, near the mill upon the 
mountain brow. 

My maiden swore eternal love — where is her pro- 
mise now ? 

I gave a garland — from a farland — and she gave 

a ring 
To her lover— idle treasure— which no love could 

bring. 

* Na sauwrati — On the ed°-e of the field. 



.,^M^.^^^- ,-.—■ ...^^ ..-..^^^^..^ ^.^-^ .^.^^^....^aa— 



185 

To those fair lips, as poppies red, what kisses have I 

given ; 
How often round that swan-like maid play'd like the 

breeze of heaven. 

In love's own madness — danc'd with gladness — 

smil'd but 'twas to sigh : 
Nights all-sleepless — chas'd the error — sad and lone 

was I. 

At morning ere the matin bell — and ere the matin 

prayer* 
I rose to hear the choral songs of minstrels of the 

air. 

The forests shaded — I invaded — and my hapless eye 
Ah ! false maiden — wretched lover— saw — O agony ! 

'Twas in the valley's deepest dellt she sat — and not 

alone ; 
I heard the vow — I saw the kiss — she smil'd — he 

said ' Mine own ' 

* Naklekanj — The thrice-repeated singing in the Catholic 
churches to morning, noon, and evening prayers. 

t W rokliace — a small valley between two roeks. 



186 

He fondly press'd her — I address'd her — ' Wretched, 

wretched be ;' 
Sown not gather'd- — lov'd not wedded — luckless 

doom for me. 






Kraska to Kwetoslaw. 
Na kwetnych mne brezych wzdy nech obywati. 

Yes ! let me wander by that fiower-banFd stream 

Which pours its fountains out by Praga's wall ; 
Go ! toil for honor in the fields of fame : 

Fame — all Bohemia wakens at its call. 
Where my young days pass'd by in blissful thought 

Is now a dreary solitude to me ; 
The scenes which peace and love and beauty brought 

Are darkness all — because estrang'd from thee. 

Thou wert an ever-sparkling light — but now 
Art a pale meteor trembling in the sky : 

I see thy name carv'd on the maple's bough. 
Or by the moon's gold sickle writ on high ; 



187 

There do my loud sighs wed them to the wind. 

And harps aeolian in the grotto play ; 
Be present to my eyes — as to my mind — 

Hither again — O hither bend thy way. 

'Midst the dark foliage in the full -moon's light 

Thou didst first fan the fire of holiest love ; 
There did my pure lips pledge their early plight. 

While listening nightingales were grouped above. 
Hear (saidst thou) hear my words thou blue-bright 
heaven ; 

Hear them, thou moon! whom yon fair stars attend; 
And if I leave thee — curs'd and unforgiven 

Let poison with each breeze, each breathing blend. 

O THOU wilt see, bewitching, blinding maids. 

Maids who o'er youth's fond dreams supremely reign ; 
And thou wilt then forget Bohemia's shades. 

And thou wilt wear affection's foreign chain. 
Those ringlet-tresses — those black, beaming eyes 

I know they will intoxicate — I know 
How they will dazzle — while thy Kraska flies 

Fading and fading more — and dwells with woe. 



188 

I HEAR the rattling troop — I feel the earth 

Is shaking 'neath the chargers — so begone. 
I hear the drums loud rolling — and the mirth 

Of battle-loving heroes — Kwetslaw— on ! j 
On to the banner ! yet one kiss — thou bold ' 

Heart-chosen man — fame calls thee — no delay ; 
Take the sharp steel— 'tis glittering in its hold ; 

Thy Kraska's hand shall bind it — now away ! 

Now battle like a Ceskian — and success. 

Success walk still unwearied at thy side. 
Courageous but discreet — Yet forward press 

As cataracts adown the mountain side. 
The kiss I give thee now, O let it burn 

Like sacred fire upon thy lips — until 
To thine enraptur'd maid thou shalt return — 

And godlike thoughts her widening bosom fill. 



I 



189 



KWETOSLAW TO KraSK. 



Wlast mne wola, Krasko ! oko drahe zgasni. 



My country calls me, Kraska ! dry thine eyes. 

Disturb not with thy tears youth's quiet flow ; 
Rend not my heart — nor chill thine own with sighs ; 

Thy rosy cheeks are mantled o'er with snow — 
Weep not because thy Ceskian leaves thee — No ! 

The mighty lion on the flag unfurl'd. 
Roars with loud voice, and bids the warriors go — 

Wealth, heart, and blood — our country — and the 
world. 

How sweet and silent were our early days. 
Gliding like meadow streamlets soft and still ; 

Enjoyment threw o'er every hour its rays. 
Anxious, life's cup with flowing bliss to fill. 



I 



190 

But soon — too soon — that bliss has been o'ercast. 
Which made me the world's envy — now the frost. 

The silver frost of sorrow makes a waste 
Of my once glowing spirit — All is lost. 

Yet will I prize thy love — the love I've sworn. 

That love shall lead through immortality. 
Think not that white-arm'd maidens' smile or scorn, . 

Can for an instant lure my thoughts from thee. 
No dimples, howsoever lovely— grace, 

Howe'er majestic — pearly teeth in rows — 
Mouth breathing sweets — Can these — can these efface 

Thy memory ? Never ! — or thy sway oppose } — 

In the night's silence — at the twilight's dawn. 
Whene'er I gird my sabre to my side — 

When eve around the hills her clouds has drawn- 
Then — always — shall I think of thee — and glide 

In fancy to thy presence — midst the roar 

Of cannons — and the flash of swords — and hiss 

Of bullets — while like seeds of thistles o'er 
Tom limbs fly by— -thy love shall be my bliss. 



191 

Should I return to our bohemian land. 

When the blest trump of peace is heard again. 
What bliss — what bliss supreme to take thy hand — 

How will my spirit thrill with rapture then ! 
Thy rosy lips my eager kiss shall press. 

My arms around thy smiling form shall be ; 
Thine eyes— thy cheeks— the kiss of love shall bless; 

O ! the unutterable extasy ! 

Hark ! hark ! the trumpet's call— the banner flies 

High flapping in the wind— our lions shake 
Their grisly manes— thou maid of Paradise, 

Come hither — come — thy hero's sabre take. 
And gird it on— and bless him — and one kiss — 
One kiss — and then — and then — what words can 
tell 
My thoughts— thou joy, hope, peace, song, love, and 
bliss — i 
My more than heaven—.farewell— farewell— fare- 
well ! 



J^ 



fof)n mmv. 



JOHN KOLLAR is a bohemian minister 
at Pesth, in Hungary. I have not scrupled to 
translate pretty largely from his works ; and I am 
much mistaken if he will not be deemed worthy 
of praise and admiration. The affecting tenderness, 
the melancholy sweetness with which he dwells on 
the fate of his country, and the eager enthusiasm 
with which he rears up the dreams of her future 
power and happiness, appear to me full of the finest 
materials of thought and expression. Like my 
original, I have bound myself to the sonnet's nar- 
row limits — but KoUar has also written some epi- 
grams and elegies. I cannot but deem such men 
k2 



196 



as he the great conservators of their country's 
fame, and the sources of their country's hope. His 
words (Slawy Dcera, p. 73,) have been often re- 
ferred to as topics of consolation : 

Krasnegi se nikdo nehonosj 

Smelym celem, gako wlastenec 
Genz w swem srdci cely narodnosj* 
In his Slawy Dcera, Kollar's affection for his 
country and for his Mina is exquisitely delineated, 
and towards the former no patriot ever poured forth 
more high-sounded breathings. He weeps " me- 
lodious tears" over the ruins of his father-land, and 
hurls his bitter and eloquent curses against her 
oppressors. When excited he " speaks daggers."! 
Independently of his poetry he has rendered many 
services to Slavonian philology. | 

* O how illustrious is the patriot's part, 



.197 



onnet 9. 



Nenj to zem, ani nebe zcela 

Not earthly charms, — nor heavenly are alone, 

In thine incomparable grace exprest ; 

'Tis holiness in human beauty drest. 

Time's shade around immortal brightness thrown ; 

Now chain'd to fleeting love — and now upflown 

From the faint passions of a time-bound breast. 

To the unclouded sunshine of the blest ; 

From dust and darkness — to the lightning's throne. 

There stars roll o'er thee, — from whose radiant light 

Thou didst receive the rays thou scatter'st round, 

While flashing like a vision on the sight ; 

Say wert thou moulded from the clayey ground. 

That I may love thee ? — if thou art divine — 

An angel — I will worship at thy shrine. 



198 



^onntt 10. 



Tezko zrjti, werjm, kdyz se w krasy. 

O- WHAT sublime conceptions fill the soul. 

When o'er. the dawn-clad, Tatra* the rapt. eye 

Wanders ; — all thought dissolv'd in sympathy. 

And words unutter'd into silence roll ! . 

How the heart heaves when thunder-storms eclipse 

The sun, and century-rooted oaks uptear : 

When Etna opens wide his fiery lips — 

Turns pale the star-hair'd moon and shakes the sphere ! 

Yet this, and more than this, my soul can bear — 

But not thine innocent look. — thy gentle smile — 

What magic, might, and majesty, are there : 

A trembling agitation shakes me, while 

Confus'd amidst thy varied charms I see 

The powers of earth and heaven all blent in thee. 

* The highest of the Carpathian mountains. 



199 



^mmrt 12. 



Malug obraz, genz se zarj hrawau. 

Mould thee of brightest dreams an airy creature, 
The loveliest soul in loveliest body dress ; 
Bid beauty overflow from every feature — 
Bid mind uplift them from earth's narrowness. 
Let the eye flash with light from heaven,—- and love 
Mingle the tenderness of earthly care ; 
And the tall forehead tower erect, above 
Those smiling lips that breathe such odors fair. 
Bind living garlands round the snowy brow. 
With flowers from every stem and every sphere — 
Flowers gay and various as the Iris-bow, 
And let that form pour music on the ear. 
And sweet Slavonian song — thou hast array'd 
In shadowy dreams a true Slavonian maid. 



200 



mintt 15. 



Prjroda se ze wseck ziwlu wsudy. 

Nature from all her elements hath made 
A flower of fadeless beauty — she hath blent 
All charms that earth hath held or heaven hath lent — 
And in the light of suns and stars array 'd 
Her form : — from Pallas wisdom — Lada* grace. 
Hath stol'n — instead of odors which decay : 
Cupid and Milekf tore the leaves away. 
And rounded every limb in three days space . 
Then came the higher deities, and pour'd 
The graces and the charities — a tongue 
Of silver gave, and round the maiden hung 
The sympathie s of tenderness— -who sees 
The angel, cries — O born to be ador'd ! 
Who brought from Stella's groves such charms as 
these. 

* Venus. t Cupid. 



20] 



^mnut 21. 



Nikdy takym zare sarlatowa. 

The morning beaming on the flowery beds. 
Whose gems give back its beauty, light and grace. 
Is far less lovely than thy lovely face — 
Where Lada* all her rays of radiance spreads. 
The chaste but glowing pencil of the spring. 
Which paints the may-rose^ has no tint to give 
So fair as these thy sweet lips' colouring. 
With ever-living smiles that round them live. 
The bending of thy beauteous arms is fairer 
Than the gold strings of the musician's bow. 
So magical : — to what shall I compare her ! 
To fable's dreams ? O no ! for here a rarer 
And a diviner model I can show — 
A foot whose touch moves not the sands below. 

* Venus. 

k5 



202 



^omxtt 23 



Sotwy ze se smelsj opowazj. 



3 



The busy thoughts to narrow bounds confin'd, 

Struggle for wider fields, and beat the wires 

Of their poor cage : — impatience makes them blind 

In gazing on the light of vain desires. 

And they disperse — but hope broods o'er the mind. 

And warms its dreams and fans its sleeping fires. 

Till like that glorious bird that never tires, 

It sits aloft in clouds and stars enshrin'd. 

For me has virtue flower'd on love's sweet stem, 

At Vesta's altar I have pour'd my vows : 

I have tied wreaths of worship round the brows 

Of Milek,* and I wear his diadem, — 

To sufiering he the stamp of joy has given. 

And pour'd on earth the sunny light of heaven. 

* Cupid. 



203 



^jann^t 27. 



Geste spj ! O tlcho srdce hlasne. 

She sleepeth ! cease, thou noisy heart ! to beat; 

Let every step be silence — birds ! be still ; 

Ye guardian spirits, on your pinions fleet. 

Fly — hurry back the sun-light from the hill. 

It were a sin to lose an hour so sweet : 

Ungrateful not love's mandates to fulfil ; — 

Disturb her not — kiss gently, eager will. 

Those lips — that brow — both love and beauty's seat. 

But, as the trembling hand approach'd — afraid 

To lift the silken veil that wrapt the maid. 

She woke in beautiful emotion, — threw 

Three hundred flashes round her, each a ray 

Of lightning — saw the youth — her eyes of blue 

Melted— bent down — she whisper'd soft, '^good day/ 



I 



204 



gjounet 28. 



Negen ona ruzokwetna Ijcka. 

Cheeks wHcli are colored from the dewy rose ; 
Lips, whence young smiles go forth and where shej 

rest : 
A swan-like neck above a snowy breast, 
Where many a golden curl light-waving flows. 
A forehead bright as sunshine — hazel brows, 
Pencil'd as if by art — their orbits drest 
In living light of innocence;, — repress'd 
Each heaving sigh, and every breath that rose 
Half-smother'd — thus it was that I was bound ; 
Love's thousand, thousand fetters girt me round : 
What time he lull'd me with his sweet delusion. 
Till I awoke, midst struggling, strife, and care ; 
Grief fought with hope, and fancy with despair. 
And soul with sense — all conflict and confusion,. 



2Q5 



g)0nnet so. 



Oci, oci modre milostrive. 

Ye eyes with love o'erflowing — eyes of blue. 

Ye white pearls peeping thro' unfolding buds, 

Eyes where earth's azure, and heaven's azure too. 

Shine as reflected on the mirrory floods. 

From ye — from your own brightness, living schools I 

I studied virtue — why did ye impart. 

With your instructions, poison to my heart ? 

Why mingle mischief with your moral rules ? 

In your first glance the peace-destroyer shot 

His mortal arrow thro' me — and it smote 

My inmost heart — but yet I murmur not ; 

But dwell on thought more blessed, tho' remote : 

As heaven is gilded by the torch's ray 

That lights our funerals on their tomb-bound way. 



206 



g^onnet 33. 



Wsecko, CO gen koli nahromadil. 

O MY Slavonia ! many are the blows 

Which time and unkind destiny have laid 

Upon thy helplessness — thy children, foes ; 

By sons — by strangers — by the world betray 'd, 

Tatars, and magyars, and that cruel nation. 

Deceitful germans — who unpeopled thee ; 

Yet love, sweet love, hath found thee compensation. 

And a rich recompence for injury — 

Thy native tongue — and would they but have bann'd 

it. 
The shame it had been ours e'en more than theirs : 
It was no wonder that their cunning plann'd it, 
Yet when pretence puts forth her foreign airs. 
In silence, O Slavonia ! understand it. 
For idle noise no fruit of wisdom bears. 



207 



gjomxet 36. 



W pstre lauky, a wy hustym njzka. 

Ye flower-clad meadows, and ye silent vallies. 

Encircled round with verdure-covered trees : 

O welcome, welcome, beauty's nymph, who sallies — 

Throwing bright glances o'er your luxuries ; 

Is the stream brighter — are the flowers more fair — 

Is the high poplar taller — doth the bird 

Of the green wood sing sweeter to the air. 

And gayer is the reaper's music heard ? 

Ye winds, bring all your odors — nymphs, that hide 

Youselves in grottos, join in dance and song : 

Lift up your heads, ye hills, in joy and pride — 

Here all is harmony — the maid — the scene — 

Here beauty is and incense — here have been — 

Such goddess to such temple doth belong. 



208 



Bonntt 37. 



Negen ze ge kinene slowanskeho. 

Tis not alone that of Slavonia's stem^ 

She is a simple and a smiling flower ; 

Tho' the obdurate frank and saxon's power 

Have sought to rase the impress of the gem. 

Oh ! many erring sons of Slaw^a know 

Too little of her glories — they conspire. 

Her language — their sire's fame— to overthrow;, 

Nor heed the frownings of celestial ire. 

A heart as pure as are the pearls of dew — 

An english spirit in a child-like guise — 

A magic on the lips and in the eyes. 

And friendship's strength, and beauty's sparkling hue. 

Ye fame-full tribes and tongues ! since heaven has 

given 
All this, what more would ye expect from heaven ? 



209 



Bomtt 39. 



Uzrew ondy mesjc plnoskwaucj. 

When the moon o'er the mountain-branches rises. 
With rays as rainbows brilliant, lo ! it seems 
As if thy smile upon its pale face beams 
With more than lunar light : for love disguises 
All objects, and in passionate fondness I 
Pour'd out my heart, and wildly held dicourse 
With that supernal queen, until the hoarse 
Laugh of the mountains shook the starry sky. 
Then to night's spectre-spirits did I cry 
Impatient — and they tarried in their course. 
And bid the gentle stars of heaven reply : 
" We have sent forth a sister from on high. 
Clad all in love and light and beauty — she,. 
Slawa ! was sent to minister to thee." 



210 



g)onnet 43. 



Na rtech techto, srdce tweho prahu. 

Upon thy lips — thy swelling breast of snow. 
Thy bright eyes, and thy budding soul — I lay 
My love's unshaken — its eternal vow — 
Its oath — its pledge — yes ! Mina ! hear me say : 
" Time overrules the world — makes all its prey- 
Time calls us where all time is buried low : 
Yet I am thine for aye — record it so — 
Thou glorious heaven — thou star-girt milky way !" 
I bend me from the clouds — my name is fate ; 
On thee I look in pity — ^for tho' peace 
Is in thy vow — yet war must be thy doom ; 
And I shall chase thee in thy restlessness — 
Whither and when — I say not — soon or late — 
Perchance a better — brighter day may come. 



211 

g)0nnet 45. 



Ode Babigory w tonato rause stjnu. 

(A spirit with a iiahed sword.) 

" A shadowy form I come from Babig5r ; 
Sent by thy country to her doubting son — 
O ! on love's triflings waste thy soul no more : 
Mina, or country — choose, and choose but one." 

(A spirit with a bent bow. J 
" I visit thee from love's flower-scatter'd shore ; 
Three days my arrow Lada has possess'd 
To sharpen — tell me, tell me, I implore — 
Dost love thy country or thy Mina best ? " 
The midnight struck — I left the awful spot : 
My eye still fix'd upon the misty shade — 
The sword — the arrow — Mina — country — what 
But doubt and silence — on my breast I laid 
My hand — tore out and broke in twain my heart— 
My country ! — Mina ! — each shall have a part. 



212 



g)0nriet 50. 



Geste cnj ten domek ! poljbenj. 

Yet, yet, I see thee thro' the distance peeping. 
Mine own sweet home, and fling renew'd adieus — 
Onward, my steps, O onward ! lest my weeping 
O'erpower me with the thoughts of what I lose. 
I see thy golden doors — awake or sleeping. 
Thou land of peace — like sunbeams midst the dews : 
Vain dreams ! for I thro' darksome woods am creep- 
ing— 
I have no mansion, hut the clouds' wild hues. 
Turn not, O turn not back — shine, day-star, shine ! 
Ye birds of heaven pour out your loudest songs — 
Lift, thou fierce storm, that awful voice of thine — 
Shout mountains, shout ! what pang to man be- 
longs, 
Man may bear bravely — I resolve — and yet 
Turn back — and then I feel my eyes are wet. 



213 

)Onnet 54. 



Lasko ! lasko ! 6 ty sladky klame. 

O LOVE ! thou sweet but sorrowful delusion — 
Thou golden cup with treacheries o'erflowing : 
Thou twixt two hearts — with tendrils stron; 



up- 



growing 
Dost bind them — 'till they melt in common fusion. 
Earth and heaven's blessedness seems theirs — enjoy 
The fleeting moment, for the storm is waking — 
It blackens — bursts — and heaven and earth are 

shaking ; 
That storm the boat and boatman may destroy. 
Daughter of heaven, where art thou ? Thou sweet 

guest. 
Whom I have often welcom'd to my breast : 
Thou child of flowers — thou fountain-head of care ! 
I launch'd my bark for thy bright port — but heaven 
Frown'd ; — with a broken rose-stem was I driven 
Upon the rocks — and nought but briars were there. 



214 



g)onnet 56. 



Ku bar bar um rodu Awarskeho. 

There came three minstrels in the days of old, 

To the Avaric savage — in their hands 

Their own Slavonian citharas they hold : 

'' And who are ye !" the haughty Khan demands ; 

Frowning from his barbaric throne, " and where — 

Say where your warriors — where your sisters be." 

" We are Slavonians, monarch ! and came here 

From the far borders of the baltic sea : 

We know no wars — no arms to us belong — 

We cannot swell your ranks — 'tis our employ 

Alone to sing the dear domestic song" — 

And then they touch'd their harps in doubtful joy. 

" Slaves !" said the tyrant — " these to prison lead, 

For they are precious hostages indeed." 



215 



g)0nnet 68. 



Garo wznika, mlhy plasj slunce. 

'Tis spring — the sun is putting forth his rays — 

The gentle airs play lovingly together. 

And on the green boughs, shaded from the weather. 

The nightingales are singing rapturous lays : 

The seeds are swelling for the harvest days — 

The squirrels springing, and the bulls are prancing- 

The butterflies along the gardens dancing, 

And the bees singing endless roundelays. 

There's universal joy — or eloquent. 

Or silent — yet 'tis joy — and love, and gladness ; 

While I — poor devotee of woe and sadness. 

On spring and summer turn a hopeless eye : — 

Dark is the sun to me — joy's fountain dry. 

Since from my soul, that soul's sweet life was rent. 



216 



§)0nnet 70. 



Cekeg tamto nad Sumawau malo. 

Tarry, thou golden sun, upon our hills. 
Our own bohemian hills — above our woods ; 

tarry : 'tis alone thine influence fills 
With rays of light Bohemia's solitudes; 
And as thy mission is of peace and joy, 
Chace thou the evil dreams of darkness — pour 

Bright greetings — and the shades of grief destroy, 
And bless the love which calls thee to watch o'er 
And witness its deep faithfulness — Awake 
Some splendor in mine eyes, and bear to her. 
Beneath whose influence, and for whose sweet sake 

1 would be gay — O golden monarch ! bear 
To her all beams of beauty and of bliss. 

And let thy smile — cheeks, lips, and eyelids kiss. 



217 



sonnet 72, 



Slawie ! O Slawie ! ty gmeno. 

Slavonia ! glory-breathing name, surrounded 
With mingling mists of pleasure and of pain : 
Now torn by sorrow— now by treachery wounded- 
Now, breaking into light and strength again. 
From the Karpathian to the Ural brows. 
From sandy wastes that wake the summer's heat. 

To where its ray falls powerless on the snows 

Thou art enshrin'd in thy majestic seat! 

Thou hast o'erliv'd misfortune— hast withstood 

The idol worship of the nations round. 

E'en thy own children's black ingratitude ; 

And thou hast rear'd thee, on the eternal ground, 

A temple from the ruins of old time. 

Whence thou pour'st forth thine energies sublime. 



218 



g)Onnet 79. 



Gestle slawy rumy geste wstanaw. 

When future generations of our sons. 

From old Slavonia s ruins, shall re-build 

Her temple— from the congregated stones 

The bards shall speak ; and be their songs fulfiU'd ! , 

Regenerate now your country— for its name 

Is gforz/*— shield her from a stranger s grasp, 

And O ! let never selfish avarice clasp 

Slavonia in her arms of sinful shame ! 

To many members she hath one sole head— 

Her nervous Hmbs from one sole body grow— 

From one sole source her mingled waters flow ! 

Why should her sons through tortuous pathways lead? 

Divide ?— 'twere nobler far— a close link'd band. 

To claim one glorious, lasting father-land. 



* Slawa— Glory. 



219 



)0nnet 88. 



Nechteg zaupat, kdyz se proti tobe. 

No, brothers ! no despairing — Envy's eye, 
Sharp and malevolent, may pierce ye through— 
Yet wound not truth by weakness, nor undo 
Her victories by mistrust — nor faint — nor fly — 
Since truth should stand erect, and lift on high 
Her glorious standard; for she can subdue 
Resistance into fealty — blasphemy 
Into pure worship, — into reverence true. 
Truth is a storm on Lebanon, that shaketh 
The mighty cedars which resist her shock ; 
I Oppos'd — far mightier is the stir she maketh— • 
1 Her tongue is as a sword — her breath a rock — 
I Her heart is marble — ^pillars are her hands. 
And trampling down her foes, with granite feet she 
stands. 

l2 



220 



)0nnet 95. 



% 



Oni rtowe, gegichz wune plynna. 

Those very lips with honey overflowing. 

Which have pour'd out so much of peace and pleasure; 

A stream of light and sweetness, without measure : 

To those — to those alone, my pangs are owing. 

So to the pilgrim in Arabia's fields. 

Perfumes and balsams come — but drawing nigh. 

He feels the fierceness of a burning sky. 

And faints amidst the odours which it yields. 

Her lips are full of manna and of nectar — 

Heaven's fragrant breezes play — as to protect her ; 

And yet she breathes sweet poison, for there sits 

Perdition on those lips, in Love's own shape ; 

And thence he wings his fiery darts in fits. 

And he has struck me — how should I escape ? 



221 

g)0nnet 102. 



Hory, hory, slyste hory skalne. 

Ye towering mountains upon mountains pil'd. 

Rocks upon rocks up to the cloudy sky. 

Build me a temple on your summits high. 

Whence I may reach that angel, far exil'd. 

Ye towering mountains upon mountains pil'd ! 

Ye gathering streams that, thro' your beds beguil'd. 

Roll thundering to the ocean's majesty. 

Singing loud anthems as ye hasten by — 

Bear these, my tears, uncheck'd and undefil'd. 

Ye gathering streams to ocean's depths that hie ! 

Ye winds, ye breezes, wherefore are ye still ? 

Freshen and bear my sighs to her high throne : 

Take pity — hasten — and my prayers fulfil — 

Ye winds, ye breezes, wherefore are ye still ? 

Waft me to her, seraphic messengers. 

Or her to me — nor let me pine alone ; 

For what are clouds, or storms, or ghostly fears ? 

Waft me to her, seraphic messengers !* 

* This is the 102nd sonnet of Kollar's Slawa Dcera. It is 
one of those of which Joseph Wenzy has puhlished transla- 
tions. 



222 



sonnet 103. 



Ani audol Tater techto ticha. 

O NOT our own Karpathia's quiet vales, 

O'er which the green-brow'd mountains girt with 

stone 
Raise up to heaven their adamantine walls, 
Making midst stars and clouds a glorious throne. 
Not Pison pouring to Euphrate's tide. 
Its golden- water fountain — not the juice 
Which medicine's marvellous craft did erst produce 
When Vulcan fann'd the fire — these will not hide. 
These will not heal, my sorrows — I can find 
No freshening stream to cool my burning breast. 
No ointment on the w^ounds of life to bind — 
Without its nymphs sweet Tempe were unblest; 
Without its maidens, what were Arcady ? 
Without its Eve, what's paradise to me? 



223 



)0nnet loe, 



Rcete zenci, co tarn se srpecky. 

Tell me, ye reapers, tell me have ye found. 
While binding up your sheaves of golden corn, 
A little, laughing, lovely boy, around 
Whose curly locks a harvest- wreath is bound? 
Ye shepherds, who with dew-damp feet, at morn 
Track your white lambs — say have ye seen forlorn 
A gentle joyous child, that o'er the ground 
Trips sportively ? Ye forests, that adorn 
The mountains — ye sweet birds — ye flowing rills — 
Ye list'ning rocks— heard ye that voice's sound. 
Whose strain of music thro' creation thrills ? 
If ye have seen not — heard not — pity me — 
Help me to find the maid I love— and be 
Milder than unrelenting destiny. 



^ 



224 



)0nnet io8. 



Zare zlata stkwj se nad wychodem. 

In its pale glory beams the early day. 

The eagle on strong pinion mounts on high. 

O'er the calm lake the swan glides peacefully. 

The white lambs on the verdant meadow play, 

The songster tells his mate, that day is nigh — 

The flowers are mirrors, made by dewdrops' ray. 

The bolts and bars of human dwellings fly. 

And noise rolls o'er the lately silent way : 

The darkness and the weariness are past 

Of yesternight — and now the morning breaks 

In light and beauty undisturb'd — a vast 

And glorious renovation ; but for me 

No morn of hope — ^no day of brightness wakes— 

'Tis an eternal night of misery. 



225 



g)0nnet no. 



Dunagi, ty i wsech toku knjze. 

DuNA !* thou queen of many rivers — thou 
Of all Slavonia, venerable mother ! 
Why to a foreign ocean dost thou flow. 
Why leave thy native home to seek another ? 
O ! if thou love thy birth-place, if thou know 
Pity for these thy sorrowing children — glide 
Not to the Osmans, but these tears of woe 
Bear to thy cradle on thy silver tide. 
Dost thou seek wreaths of fame ? — it is no fame 
To bear a hundred ships upon thy face 
While it is water'd by a single tear — 
Yet this is glory — when Wletarvaf here 
Joins to thy name its own fraternal name. 
And thy bride Saale\ speeds to thine embrace. 

* The Danube. 

t The Slavonian rivers that flov^^ into the Danube. 

l5 



226 



)omtt 112. 



O, wy drahe zbytky meho padu. 

Dear relic of the past ! so sweetly fair, 

O would that Pope, or of the Iliad, he 

Could sing the tresses of thy golden hair. 

In music, blessed maiden ! worthy thee. 

Had I the fleece of Argos — did I bear 

A sultan's sceptre — dwell in palaces — 

Rule half the world — thou, thou far more than 

these — 
Thou, hundred times saluted prize, wert dear. 
Thou, while it vibrates — thou my heart's own key ! 
Thou, who art beauty — who art all to me : 
Thou — not disdainful — like a worldly maiden. 
Say, when the wild wind with my dust is laden. 
Wilt thou not take thy seat in heaven — a star 
Where Berenice's tresses shine afar ? 



227 



)omtt 118. 



Na te mysljm, kdyz tmy sere hynau ; 

I THINK of thee when night's dark shadows fly. 

And morning's ray spreads slowly o'er the hills ; 

When girt with stars and clouds, the mom on high 

Smiles on the birchen grove and gilds the rills. 

I hear thee in the gentle music, made 

By streams that rush to other streams — by flowers 

That whisper to the winds, or catch the showers — 

Or green leaves rustling in the vernal glade. 

Thee do I see — thee would I recognize — 

A pilgrim hasting to a holy shrine ; 

When mists that seem all-sacred wrap the skies. 

With thee I dwell, and I am ever thine ; 

Thus soul-united — there shall never be 

Aught but my grosser nature far from thee. 



228 



Bomtt 125. 




W jteg prista z dalky lastowicko. 

Now, welcome swallow ! welcome ! take thy rest — 

The spring is melting every icy stream — 

Build 'neath my roof thine unmolested nest ; 

Here be thy quiet home of peace — nor deem 

The bard intrusive, if he bid thee tell 

Of distant lands and distant beauties — say 

If from yon plains, where all the graces dwell. 

She gave thee no sweet message on thy way. 

" Thither I flew, for I had often heard 

Of charms that dazzled every flitting bird — 

Thither I flew, to gaze upon the maid : 

But I was so bewilder'd, when I saw. 

That eloquent fame itself had failed to draw 

Her form — I fled — in silence and afraid." 



229 



>0nnet i33, 



Znasli krag ten ony rage wecne. 

Know'st thou the land of paradise above. 
The home of beauty and the seat of mind — 
Where virtue is the minister of love — 
Love, beauty, virtue, intellect enshrin'd. 
All-influential : where the breezes blow 
Odorous and mild ; and nightingales from bowers 
Of myrtles sing unceasing — palm trees grow, 
O'ershading to protect the sunny flowers. 
Know'st thou the land where neither night nor heat 
Blacken or blast — no thorns the roses bear. 
And pure desires their swift fruition meet : — 
Time's stream rolls on untroubled at time's feet ; 
Wife — sister — each, as other, pure and dear — 
O mine for lasting ages ! Thou art there. 



230 



^Omtt 146. 




Patri wfikol gako zlutnau hole. 

See ! for dark mists the mountain-tops are shading. 
And town and village welcome wanderers home ; 
Where play'd the zephyr air — the north winds roam ; 
Where songs of joy were heard, is peace pervading — 
Still is the stream — the storks are now parading 
Our borders, — with the sun prepared to go : 
The flowers that on the Danube's borders grow 
Are borne away — the yellow vine leaf fading. 
But sight and scene shall not be clouded long — 
Earth shall throw off its mourning robes again. 
And May shall come with extacy and song ; 
But not to me — ah not for me — in vain 
The seasons change : no renovating spring 
Shall to my autumn light and verdure bring. 



231 

The following sonnets have not, I believe, been published: 
I have been favoured with them in M.S. 



Nechoi zlata, napoge a gidla. 

Not gold, nor precious drinks, nor costly food. 

Nor titles — no ; nor diadems — vain things ! 

I would not have such trifles if I could ; 

But glory ! thou, my mother !* give me wings. 

Yes ! give me wings, and I will fly and greet 

Slavonia's scatter'd brothers — I will go 

Where Chekians,t Servians, and KhrowatiansJ meet. 

And whence the Visla and the Volga flow. 

So, like a bee, from flower to flower I'll fly 

To all Slavonia's children 'neath. the sky. 

Dispensing music as I pass along 

And sweet my task and great my bliss will be 

To pour out smiles on every family. 

And cheer each mother and each maid with song. 

* Slawo, matko mila! this invocation loses its effect 
where the analogy is lost between Glory and Slavonia. 
t Bohemians, 
t Croatians. 



232 



§)0nnet. 



Co ge wrtky mesje u oblohy. 

Even as the changeful moon across the sky- 
Moves on inconstant- — now in brightness shining— 
Now clouded — now towards the hills declining — 
Now lifts its face, and now its horn on high : 
So falsely midst the gods — so treacherously 
Doth love deceive, and laugh at mortal men — 
Now opens Eden to our ravish'd eye. 
Then flings us back to wretchedness again. 
As he whom sunlight guides upon his way. 
But little heeds the moon's inferior ray. 
So do I turn me from love's feeble name ; 
Since heaven, that makes great gifts the lesser follow 
Took Cupid to replace him by Apollo— 
Beckon'd off Venus — and led forward Fame.* 



Slawa. 



233 



Bomtt 



Gednem nemoc ukracuge leta. 

Disease curtails the gathering years of some. 
Some fall a rival's enmity beneath. 
Sharp steel, or pinion'd-lead sends others home — 
Poison and thunder fill the nets of death : 
Some are o'erpower'd by wasting pestilence — 
The murderer's bloody stroke is some men's doom. 
The headsman summons others to the tomb. 
But I — am called by love to speed me hence. 
Bring back my song, thou listening earth and sea- 
Love has for some sweet transports — but for me. 
Nothing but sorrowing dreams and wailings drear: 
Then pity me, thou outspread arch of heaven — 
To some hath love its nuptial blessings given — 
To me a grave — a dungeon, and a bier. 



234 



Gake barwy ! gate spanilosti. ■ 

What colors ! what sweet fragrance ye are throwing, 

What beauties scattering on that lovely shore ; 

Flowrets ! so blue, so meek, so lowly growing — 

Ye fair forget-me-nots — thus sprinkled o'er. 

O ! I have seen in other distant lands. 

The self-same glances of your azure eyes — 

Then still the tumult of my stormy sighs. 

And strengthen all my heart with firmer bands. 

Would that it were my lot, ye starry flowers ! 

To mingle with your buds, the banks along 

Of Rakosh,* and the silver current strong 

Of Saale — I would tell the flowing hours 

Your name, and bid them mark, that wintry fate 

Destroy'd you, only to resuscitate. 

* Rakosh is a celebrated field near Pesth, through which a 
stream flows, and above which a mountaiQ rises. In former 
times the hungarians held their assemblies and consultations 
there, whence came the name of Rokos or Rakos — the 
place of counsel. 



235 



Pahorek gest, na nemz rozwaliny. 

There is a hill where time's devouring teeth 

Feed on the ruins of an ancient tower ; 

A little city lifts its head beneath, 

x4nd a small house which linden-trees embower. 

Upon its heaven-regarding roof, the sun 

Pours forth the very brightest of his rays : 

It is the temple of a mighty one. 

Whom fame hath visited with loud-voic'd praise. 

For many a year, had fearful signs of weeping, 

And frightful sounds of woe, that dwelling fill'd ; 

Now 'tis beneath the wings of silence sleeping ; 

Love hath the dreams, the wounds, the sorrows 

still'd 
Which broke the rest of fame, and driven away 
The bear, the lion, and the beasts of prey.* 

* Appendix to Slawy Dcera. 



236 



^omtt 




O pul nocl, kdyz zem celau skrywa 



At midnight^ when the robes of darkness, when 

The belt of snow have girded all the earth, 

I wander forth, in passion and in pain. 

From her, who gave that pain and passion birth. 

The damp-cold north wind lifts its voices loud — 

Its many voices, Maker ! unto thee ; 

And bursting thro' a broken silvery cloud, 

The moon looks down with tenderness on me. 

Pour forth thy light from thy o'erflowing chalice 

Of radiant beams, and let them nightly flow 

Over the crooked path I tread below : — 

I am no thief, no minister of malice. 

No runaway, no conscience-smitten — no ! — 

To love and Lada* all my grief I owe. 

* Venus. 



237 



Ac giz dnu mi smutne proplakanych. 

O SHE has caus'd me many days of mourning — 
Yes ! many days mourning from morn to eve. 
And fate my grief to grief more gloomy turning-— 
Flung worlds between us ; therefore do I grieve 
With deeper pang, and therefore bear a chain. 
Whose heavy weight no patience can endure. 
And like a froward infant weep in vain 
O'er wounds that nought can soothe and nought can 

cure. 
So midst these torments roll my life-days o'er. 
And hope is dissipated all in dreams — 
In Nebosh* cells, and distant Dalibor ; 
Yet still I bear — unbending — fancy's schemes 
Console me, and I kiss the chains she bound 
My miserable helplessness around. 

* A fortress-prison in Belgrad. When the turks throw a 
criminal into its dungeons, they say Neboi sa, (fear not), whence 
its name. 



WBmm |^attfta> 



Born 1791, 



WENESLAUS HANKA was born on the 
10th of June, 1791, at Horenowes. In 1818 he 
was appointed librarian of the national museum at 
Prague. His poetical productions are not numer- 
ous, but flowing and national. It is to him that 
the literature of Bohemia owes the great debt of 
the discovery and elucidation of the Kralodworsky 
MSS., which may, without hesitation, be deemed 
the most remarkable contribution modern times 
have made to the ancient literature of Bohemia. 
He is a thorough master of the literary antiquities 
of his country, and by his Starobyla Skladanie 
has admirably filled one of the blanks in the 
history of letters. 



242 



His father (he tells me) was a farmer, whom, 
up to his 16th year, he assisted in the labours of 
the field, and had no time for study but the 
wintry hours which he could dedicate to the village 
school. From the spring to the autumn he kept 
his father's sheep. The elements of the latin 
tongue he learned at home, and afterwards com- 
pleted his knowledge of it at Hradeckralowe 
(Koniggratz). He studied philosophy at Prague — 
law at Vienna : his mother-tongue was always the 
object of his admiration, and in early life he 
" moralized in song." Polish and Servian troops 
had been quartered on his father's farm, and from 
them he learned their native idioms. Having 
excited some notice, Dobrowsky became his patron 
and his instructor. His literary discoveries were 
the signal to his welcome into many distinguished 
societies — obtained for him the gold medal of the 
russian academy — marks of imperial favour from 
the emperor Alexander— and the most deserved 
respect and gratitude of all who feel any interest 
in Slavonian antiquities. 



I 



243 



Cekanj. 



Gak se ten mesjcek. 



Now the moon is rising 

O'er the forest trees. 
Fain would I inform me 

Where my lover is : 

For he made me promise, 
Ere the moon should smile, 

Here to wait his coming — 
What a weary while ! 

All the cows — I've milk'd them- 

O, the lingering hour : 
I have wreath'd the arbor 

With each fragrant flower. 
M 2 



244 

Wherefore does he tarry ? 

Welcome would he be ; 
Many a kiss should meet him. 

Come, O come to me ! 

! HE comes — ^^I hear him, 
Yes ! I hear him now — 

No ! it was the breezes 
Rustling in the bough. 

What can have detained him— 
Has some maiden's song ? 

Else he had not linger'd, 
Linger'd there so long. 

1 HAD scatter'd flow 'rets, 
Flow'rets for his bed : 

I had hung up ivy 

Garlands o'er his head. 

Has some lambkin wander'd — 

Does he track it now 
Down the craggy mountain 

To the deeps below ? 



i 



245 

THOU silver planet — 
Thou of palest beam ! 

Tell him that Lelida 

Weeps — and weeps for him. 

But if wolves have seiz'd him. 

What have I to do. 
Desolate Lelida — 

But to perish too ! 

This song is in the second number of a col- 
lection published at Prague in 1816, entitled 
Dwanactero Pjsiy. Professor Zimmermann has 
translated it into german. 

Hnew. 

Gednau sme w nedeli. 

Once seated with my love. 

Upon the sod beneath 

The blossom'd boughs above, 

1 stretch'd my hand to tear 
Sweet flow'rets for a wreath, 
And gave it to the fair. 



246 

I gave a burning kiss — 
I said, what ails thee ? tell. 
And bind thy brows with this. 

The winds were whispering while 
Her tears unwonted fell : 
She saw my raptur'd smile. 

She utter'd pensively, 

1 how it pain'd my ear — 

" I cannot smile like thee." 

" My maid ! what ails thee now — 
What means the averted eye ? 
I'll punish thee, I vow- — " 

" Silence — for shame" — she said, 
" I saw thee secretly 
Embrace another maid !"* 



•■ See Dwandctero Pjsnj — Prague, 1816. Tliere are two 
genngii translations of this song ; one by Professor Zimmer- 
mann — the other by Hanslik. 



247 

Narek. 

Ye wild and savage rocks. 
Ah ! listen to my songs ; 
To ye that tower so high. 
Gigantic, towards the sky, 
I will confide my wrongs. 

And yet ye know my wrongs ; 
Ye know my secret woe — 
The struggles of my soul — 
My griefs—my doubts— the whole 
Of sorrow's strife ye know. 

Ye know how blest I seem'd. 
When love was beaming o'er — 
Ye know his solemn oath. 
That bound— that pledg'd us both — 
He broke the oath he swore. 

And who can help me now ? 
Life's flowers and fruits are gone^ 
My roses are decay'd : 
Ah ! who shall help the maid. 
Left with despair alone ! 



248 

Casto zamysleny. 

When slumbering I found me 
Within the deep grove ; 

Sweet dreams gather'd round me. 
Of thee, mine own love ! 

__^ I SAW thee before me. 

All blooming as spring ; 
Thy smiles beaming o'er me — 
A joy-giving thing. 

Thy cheeks, they were glowing 
With blushes all bright; 

Thine eyes, they were flowing 
With love and delight. 

What bliss kindled thro' me — 

Thy hand when I prest ; 
Thy lips smiling to me. 

Said, lov'd one ! be blest ! 
Yes ! then thou wert seated — - 

Thy lips bore my kiss ; 
Thy kisses repeated 

The rapture of bliss. 



249 

Op blessings, best blessing ! 

O joy ! while I deem 
My lips thine are pressing — 

O joy ! — 'Twas a dream. 

This is another of the Dwanactero Pjsnj, 
There is a german translation by Hanslik. 



M 5 



^ofte gjanaoiua* 



SOPHIA JANDOWA. Of this lady I have 
been able to obtain no other particulars than that 
she is the daughter of a bohemian schoolmaster, 
and is married in Moravia. She has published 
only two or three pieces of poetry, which I have 
found in the periodicals. 

The Awakened Maid. 

Wmodrosseru hwezdy zapadagi. 

The stars in heaven's gray azure disappear— 

The morning-lingerer shakes his trembling beams- 
All, all is silent — all but chanticleer ; 
And I am rous'd from solitary dreams. 



254 

Upon the flowers is hung the sparkling dew — 
I look abroad — the passing and the past 

Hours of existence I retrace anew. 

And waft deep sighs across the barren waste. 

Some gloomy fate o'ershades me — heaviness 

Weighs down my heart, and sorrow flows in tears. 

And fear outpours its vials of distress — 

And yet I know no cause of guUt — or fears. 

I HAVE no concience-smitings ; but I see 
Where'er I turn, the selfsame piercing eye-r— 

Once, only once I looked on steadily. 

Then turn'd me from the shade that flitted by. 

Come golden dream — come cradle in thy arms 
My overburden'd heart, and kindly keep 

My soul from all these wakings — these alarms; 
Come golden dream — come tranquillizing sleep. 

" O GO not back, sweet maid ! for many a night- 
Yes ! many a night these dreams shall visit thee j 

Shapes round thy windows flit at morning light — 
Give him thy sighs^-and love thy prize shall be." 



BoKN 1795. 



PAUL JOSEPH SAFARIK was born in 
1795. He is now professor at the gymnasium of 
Neusatz, in Slavonia. His history of the Sla- 
vonian language and literature is a work of ex- 
traordinary research, and a truly valuable com- 
pendium. 



Oldrich and Bozena. 



Gen skokem, skokera za nami. 

" Now courage ! courage ! all my merry men. 
Break thro' the darksome woods to open sky : 

There's smoke — there's vapour on the distant plain. 
And sure there is some friendly village nigh." 



258 

Thus noble Oldrick from his horse address'd him 
To the tired huntsmen, whose distress distressed him. 

And then he spurr'd again his weary steed — 

Ah ! his was very weariness indeed. 

And thrice the evening sun had left the sky, 

Since they were wandering in the gloomy wood ; 

And thrice the morning sun had mounted high. 
Since lost among its shadow'd solitude 

They stray 'd ; and now their hearts were faint and 
fearful: 

Yet when they saw their valorous leader cheerful, 
Their feeble spirits rous'd them up anew 
To lead them even their coming perils through. 

" Now, who has heard of this sequester'd spot. 
Or who can tell this lonely village' name }'' 

So ask'd the noble prince — they answered not — 
It was a quiet scene, unknown to fame : — 

" Go Smjl ! there is a village maiden washing 

At yon bright stream which from the rocks is dashing. 
And she will tell its name, and she will say 
How far 'tis distant from the public way." 



259 

'' God — God in heaven be with thee, lovely maid !" 
'^ And God he with thee, man of noble blood \" 

" What is that village far within the glade^, 
And what and whose is this fair neighbourhood?' 

" That village, gentle sir ! is Desolation f 

'Tis a day's journey from the nearest station 
On the high way — unless like you, indeed. 
The traveller's mounted on a sturdy steed." 



So spoke the affrighted maiden, and hung down — 
Alarm'd at her own words — her heaven-blue eyes. 

A fiery passion through the breast has flown. 

Of the rapt prince, and thus the prince replies :— 

" Now tell me, maiden ! in what Lord's dominion 

This village lies — ^in faith — I'm of opinion 

That when to wandering way-lost knight you spoke 
Of ^ Desolation' you but meant to joke." 



* ZfracenA, literally — the lost — abandoned — deserted. 
Ztracenj — ^loss — perdition. 



260 

" Our lord is Count Borowsky — not unknown 
Perchance to thee^ sir knight ! — this very day 

He to the castle of his sires is gone ; 

It was but yesterday he pass'd this w^ay : 

Here in a horrid gulph our mountain river 

Is lost — it rushes raging, thundering ever — 
Hence to the gloomy spot, the gloomy name 
Of ^Desolation' from gone ages came." 

^' What is thy name, fair daughter ?" — " Bozena; 

And Krizin is my sire." — " Oh happy he. 
Sweet maiden — happy — and all-honor'd they 

^\Tio have been favor'd with a gem like thee." 
" Nay, sir ! to trifle with the poor is cruel !" 
" O say not trifle ! thou court-worthy jewel — 

Blush not — thou need'st not blush, but now fare- 
well, 

" For time will have another tale to tell." 

His steed sprang forward, as a falling star 

Seems thro' the quiet vault of heaven to spring ; 

And they are gone — gone all — and heard afar 
The dying echoes of their horse-hoofs ring. 



S5W!S=>n^^^ 



26J 

" God of my fathers ! O how strange and flighty, 
With a poor maiden, are the proud and mighty : 
O how my cheeks were burning, when he said, 
' Time may tell other tales, thou lovely maid !" 

And then his voice was silent — but her cheeks 
Crimson'd — aye ! erimson'd like an early rose : 

Her heart beat high — she bids it rest — she speaks 
In vain — its beating loud and louder grows. 

The prince mov'd slowly o'er the fields — moved only 

In erring steps, but sorrowful and lonely — 
While every eye but his was gay and bright. 
And every, every heart but his was light. 

" Smjl ! tell me how such wond'rous charms are hid 

In such a solitude — a gem so rare, 
Conceal'd beneath so rude a coverlid — 

Do village hawthorns such bright roses bear ? 
Now God shall be my witness — to this beauty 
I'll pledge my marriage faith — my marriage duty : 

She, only she my wedding bed shall share — 

She only shall my wedding honors bear." 



262 



The sun sank down again beneath the hill — 
Again his first beams on the mountain fall ; 

And still the prince is wandering forth — and still 
His footsteps honor not his golden hall. 

But now what splendid rows of light are waking, 

What more than sunshine from the earth is breaking ? 
The walls have put their bright apparel on, 
And streams of fire from every door are thrown. 

Trara ! Trara ! the trumpet's sounds invite 
The neighbouring peasants to the festal board ; 

And every bosom trembles with delight. 
While bearing its allegiance to its lord. 

'' O noble prince ! our master and protector — 

Noble prince ! our lord and benefactor." 
He enters thro' the portal at the sound. 
And then renew'd rejoicings swell around. 

But the " renew'd rejoicings" soon are dumb. 
And stillness is where late were noisy joys; 

For love, with its anxieties, is come — 
Come w4th its silence, solitude, and sighs. 



"•■ IJ !• ' ' '-»-^J*"J'"«Jr.^*» 



263 

" Such beauty, and such virtue shine upon her. 
They, even the palace of a prince will honor : 
None, none but she shall grace my marriage bed. 
No other maiden in the world I'll wed." 

So when the dawning, when the earliest dawn 
Had driven away the darkness — and the power 

Of daylight had that canopy withdrawn, 

Hung o'er east's golden gates at morning hour — 

" Know'st thou the desolate village — hasten thither. 

And bring its fascinating maiden hither — 
Milota ! speed thee, speed thee on thy way, 
And tarry not a moment night or day. 

"Speed thee — I bid thee speed; and say the prince — 
The prince himself will wed th' unparallel'd : 

Fly for the god-like child — fly swiftly — since 
Till thou return I am in misery held. 

Take thou this ring — ;! charge thee not to linger — 

This princely ring, and place it on her finger ; 
And bring her swiftly to the castle gates. 
Where welcome, with her marriage song, awaits." 



264 

He springs — lie spurs — he speeds — he flies along, 
O'er plains, and changing fields^ for many a day, 

And sometimes he is followed by a throng 
Of peasants thro' the dark and doubtful way ; 

And long they wander — long, ere '^ Desolation" 

Breaks on the inquiring eye of expectation. 

And long they track the irriguous path, ere yet 
They reach the village for their boundary set. 

Morn, early morn, had driven from mortal eyne 
All the delusions, all the dreams of sleep : 

" O golden mother — golden mother mine — 
Strange visions broke upon my slumbers deep 

Ere brightening clouds had waked the orient dawning. 

Ere night withdrew from heaven its raven awning, 
A sad disquiet had disturb'd my breast. 
And mingling voices rous'd me from my rest.' 

" It was just past the hour of middle night — 
I thought I was in iron fetters bound — 

I cried — I sought relief in my affright. 

But sought in vain — for all was darkness round : 



255 

There came a smiling form, a bright sword shaking, 
And cut the chains, 'neath which my frame was 
aching : 
A smiling form — it was the very knight 
Whose wandering footsteps I directed right. 

''And as he rent those heavy bonds in twain. 
And freed my fetter'd feet — on high he rais'd 

His hand of victory ; and he plac'd a chain, 
A golden chain, upon my neck — it blaz'd 

Brightly as those which high-bom dames, attending 

At courts oft wear — but while that hand descending 
Was clasping that gold chain, some power unknown 
Rous'd me, and I was left to muse alone." 

" See, then, young daughter ! see, how proud and gay 
Our great ones live — ^how beautiful and bright 

Their course, and thus the wandering thoughts of day 
Roll into steady shapes in dreams at night ; 

But let the years roll on, our fate controlling. 

They will bring peace at last, while onward rolling ; 
While they who follow meteors oft will stray. 
And in the fens and fogs will lose their way. 



256 

But lo ! a numerous cavalcade ascends 

The mountain — ^'tis the S water cavalcade. 
Led by the Druzba* — surely he intends 

Advancing — no ! they stop — the astonish'd maid 
Cries — " Mother ! tell me- — .what may this betoken ? 
These rapid- scouring knights — my thoughts are 
broken ; 

My dreams are come again — O mother mine ! 

These strange — these dazzling mysteries divine.". 

'^ Fair maid, Bozena ! we salute thee well" — 

" Sire ! God be with ye*' — " Bozena, we come 
From our most noble prince, his love to tell. 

And to escort thee to his palace home. 
Here take the ring from off his princely finger- 
Prepare thee, for we may no instant linger : 
Come to that palace, where the village maid 
Will wear the princely coronet on her head." 



* Druzba— (Paranymphus) the leader of the marriag^e 

attendanls or Swater. 



257 

"My daughter honor'd with the princelj^ ring! 

The princely token to my daughter sent ! 
Nay ! they are for a princess — do not bring 

Your sad jests here— for her it is not meant— *- 
Nay ! Can it be ? the noble prince could never 
Trifle with poverty — knights ! I'll endeavour 

To credit ye — but no ! a simple child— 

What should she do with courts ?" — serenely mild. 

The Dtuzba answered : — " The prince's choice, 
The prince must speak to : wandering in the wood 

He saw thy daughter's beauty — heard her voice. 
And tangled in love's ravishments he stood. 

' God is my witness — in this mountain lonely. 

My bride shall be that angel maiden only :' 

Not once — not once alone, he said, and swore : 
See here his written words, and doubt no more." 

" O HELP me — help me, gentle mother mine— 
Speak !" and she sank upon her mother's breast. 

" O blessings — blessings on that head of thine ; 
So soon— -so much — so marvellously blest. 
n2 



258 

But haste — prepare thee — feet of fleetness borrow ; 

Thou maiden ! thou wilt be a bride to-morrow. 
And thou, the village child, to rank allied, 
Bohemia's princess, and Bohemia's pride." 

'^ Rest — troubled spirit rest ! in vain, in vain, 

I bid the storminess of heart be still : 
O weep not — weep not mother ! — for again 

We meet, and meet in joy : — if love fulfil 
Its duties — on a daughter's heart, what other 
Hath such a claim as a beloved mother ; 

And God, meanwhile be with thee — dry thy tear — 

God — God be with thee, both to calm and cheer." 

They mount — they move — they hurry, and they fly 
Through meadows, fields and towns ; and lo ! a 
throng 

Of villagers on foot, that follow nigh, 

To guide them thro' perplexing paths along 

And onward — onward, from Ztracena's border 

The crowded phalanx moves in cheerful order. 
Till in the mists of growing distance shrin'd 
They leave the desolate village far behind. 



259 

And onward — onward ever — up the hill. 

And down the vale they pass — and sparks of fire 

Thick as the dust, the rocky pathway fill : 
The maiden here — and there in gay attire 

The Swater — all — in low respect and duty. 

Turning their eyes upon the affianc'd beauty. 
As in the sunny beams, the enamour'd air 
Play'd with the curls of her luxurious hair. 

And thrice the dewy morn upon the ground 

Hath scatter'd its fresh pearls, since first they took 

Their way from out the palace portals — ^bound 
To the fair maiden's cot, in its deep nook ; 

And now the prince hath bid his nobles meet him. 

In full assemblage — they are there — they greet him 
With loud rejoicings as he treads the hall. 
And thus he makes his purpose known to all. 

" Nobles ! not noble only from high blood. 
But from high virtues — ye have urg'd me long 

To cheer the hours of princely solitude. 

And choose a bride— nor was your counsel wrong : 



260 

Your will shall be fulfill'd^ for love hath driver 
His bolt into my heart. — To-day at even 
At mine own table, nobles ! you shall see 
The maiden whom I choose my bride to be. 

'^ She comes from Desolation — all her friends — 
Her parents — all — were train'd by poverty : 

Her beauty for her birth shall make amends — 
Her virtues shall be titles, lords ! to me. 

Know, then, I choose Bozena — know I choose her. 

Nor the frank tribute of respect refuse her ; 
For she alone — and I have sworn it — she 
The privileged sharer of my bed shall be." 

There was a noise confus'd of sigh and groan. 
And hiss and hem — each look'd upon the rest — 

The noise was still'd — who shall address him }— 
None ! 
Who hurl the perilous burden from his breast ? 

At last Borin Borowsky — his fair daughter 

Destined to princely bed the noble thought her — 
Borowsky, sovereign of the desolate spot. 
Gave vent to his annoy'd and peevish thought. 



261 

" 'Tis our desire — our duty to obey 

Our lord's high will — to honour his behest; 
But here 'tis hard — no more I dare to say — 

'Tis hard — our silence, prince, must speak the rest; 
Yet will I add, that there is many a maiden 
Of noble blood, with wealth and honours laden. 

Who might — thou hast preferr'd a peasant low 

To noble ladies, for it pleas'd thee so. 

" So it hath pleas'd thee — but thou hast forgot 
The usage of thy sires — and as we trust 

Thy sons — a peasant's blood may mingle not 
With a patrician's — look around — there must 

Amidst thy court, be some fair lady, worthy — 

That we may hold the nuptial banner o'er thee : 
Yet think — yet think a moment, lest foul shame 
Should taint the glory of thy father's name. 

" Prince ! prince ! can'st thou forget thine ancestry ? 

Hast thou no memory of departed days ? 
And is my father's name unknown to thee ? 

That name which well may da;2zle by its blaze-. — 



262 

Krok — he the first of nobles — he who founded 
His country's freedom — and its praise resounded 
So widely — Krok — his country's judge and friend. 
What blessings on his memory still attend." 

He said, to whom the Prince " Shall subjects choose, 
, Where, whom they will, and by their choice evince 
Their sense, and build their bliss ; and ye refuse 

The privilege of his subjects to your prince ? 
Is rank more dear than happiness ? — high station. 
Nought but a mark for sorrow and vexation ? 

No ! love has mark'd me out a fiower-strown way, 
I hear his mandate, and I must obey." 

But hear ! but hear ! the tramping hoofs of steeds ; 

Tramp, tramp, tramp, tramp, and now their riders' 
voice — 
Up starts the prince — another knight succeeds 

Another, and another at the noise. 
'^ O welcome ! welcome ! welcome — maiden fairest ! 
Sweetest of women — bride, and all that's dearest. 

Come to my arms, thou sweetest, gentlest, best. 

And cling thee — cling thee to thy lover's breast." 



263 

"Forgiveness^ noble prince — forgive ! if fear 

Have for a moment flutter'd in my heart — 
Indeed, indeed, 'tis thine — and, trembling, here 

I yield it." — " Maiden ! bid all fear depart — 
No fear be here, still, still the heart that trembled, 
For here the wedding guests are all assembled ; 

The wedding festival is waiting now, 

And nought was wanting — nought, sweet maid ! 
but thou." 



What fear o'ercame the bashful maiden then. 
When sinking on love's over-raptur'd breast : 

O what rejoicing — what an Eden — when 
Her o'er-excited spirit found sweet rest. 

Pa/ii /* This maiden for my bride Fve taken. 

My bride, your princess ! — now let joy awaken. 
And let that joy ascending from the heart, 
A lustre to each gladden'd eye impart. 



Lords. 



264 

"Blessings be with thee, prince! and princess ! thou 

Be blest with countless blessings ! — thus we bear 
Our consecration to the marriage vow. 

And ask the blessings of the Eternal here !" 
Voices of joy, until the sun retreated, 
Hose from the palace — and when evening greeted 

The guests — young virgins went, and blushing, 
spread 

The fairest roses on the nuptial bed. 

Krasorecnjk, p. 5. 



265 



Jarmila to Slawislaw. 



Gak darmo prsy hozj. 

How vainly^ vainly burns my breast. 

It burns an unextinguished fire ; 
And what can still desire to rest ? 

What stop the ragings of desire ? 

Can love, can burning love be quelFd 

By love's reciprocal return ? 
Alas ! the fires my bosom held. 

Still raging in that bosom burn. 

Where thorns around the rose-stem grew 
There pour'd I forth my plaints forlorn ; 

Where my desire to sadness flew. 

There did the rose-stem feed the thorn. 

Yes ! where desire to sadness fled. 

It was my only lot to sigh. 
Where thorns were by the roses fed. 

There did my plaints ascend on high. 



266 

Alas ! to sigh — to sigh — to sigh, 
Is sweetness to a sadden'd breast : 

Has love no consolation nigh — 

Its sighs — and will they bring it rest ? 

And will they lull the soul from pain. 
And sorrow's wild rebellions lull — 

To sigh, and sigh, and sigh again. 
Is sweetness to a sadden'd soul. 



BoKN 1796. 



TURINSKY was born in 1796. He is a 
lawyer (advokat) in Moravia. His best known 
work is his Angelina^ a tragedy, which has been 
translated into german. 



The Maiden by the Stream. 



Pere dewa u poloka. 

The maiden in the flowing stream 

Dry hemp doth lay ; 
Her tears are falling in the stream 
From those blue eyes so bright, that beam 

The live-long day. 

" Say maiden ! what disturbs thy peace 

The livelong day ?" 
" Deep wounds have stabb'd my spirit's peace. 
And nought shall bid its misery cease 

But life's decay." 



2ro 

''And didst thou see a horrid dream 

With pale affright ?" 
" O no ! it was no frightful dream — 
It was a shadow on the stream. 

But not of night. 

" It wore a wreath upon its head. 

And took its flight ; 
Borne on the rapid stream it fled 
With the green wreath upon its head — 

My hopes to spite." 

The maiden in the flowing stream. 

Dry hemp doth lay ; 
Her tears are falling in the stream. 
Her blue eyes paled with life's last gleam 

That flits away. 



FINIS. 



T. C. Hansard, Printer, 
Paternoster-row. 



m. 1 ]m. 



WORKS BY 
THE SAME AUTHOR. 



1. POETRY of the MAGYARS, preceded 

by a Sketch of the Language and Literature of Hungary and 
Transylvania. 

2. RUSSIAN ANTHOLOGY, with Biogra- 
phical and Critical Notices. 2 vols. 12mo. 15*. Second 
Edition* 

3. ANCIENT POETRY and ROMANCES 
of SPAIN. 8vo. 105. 6^. 

4. BATAVIAN ANTHOLOGY, or SPECI- 
MENS of the DUTCH POETS; with a History of the 
Poetical Literature of Holland. 12mo. 7*. Qd. 

5. SERVIAN POPULAR POETRY. r2mo. 8s, 

6. SPECIMENS of the POLISH POETS, 
l^mo. 8^. 

7. MATINS and VESPERS. Royal 18mo. 6s, 
Demy 4s. Second Edition. 

8. HYMNS. Demy l^mo. 3s. 

9. DETAILS of ARREST, IMPRISONMENT, 
and LIBERATION of an ENGLISHMAN by the BOUR- 
BON GOVERNMENT of FRANCE. 8vo. 4s. 

10. PETER SCHLEMIHL. 8vo. 6s. 6d. Second 
Edifwn. 



Works by 

11. CONTESTACION k las OBSERVA- 
CIONES de D.JUAN BERNARDO OGAVAN SOBRE la 
ESCLAVITUD de los NEGROS. 4to. 2*. 

12. OBSERVATIONS on the RESTRICTIVE 
and PROHIBITORY COMMERCIAL SYSTEM, from the 
MSS. of JEREMy Bentham, Esq. 8vo. 2*. 

13. LETTER to the RIGHT HONORABLE 
GEORGE CANNING, on the CORPORATION and TEST 
ACTS. 

14. Brieven van John Bo wring geschreven op. 
eene reize doov Holland, Friesland, en Groningen. Leeu- 
warden 1831. ]2mo. 8*. 



It is proposed to publish, in Two Volumes Octavo, Price ta 
Subscribers £1 \s. to Non-Subscribers ^14*. 

THE SONGS OF SCANDINAVIA, 

TRANSLATED BY 

Dr. BOWRING and Mr. BORROW. 

i 
Dedicated to the King of Denmark, by permission 

of his Majesty. 

The First Volume will contain about One Hundred Speci- 
mens of the Ancient Popular Ballads of North \Vestern 
Europe, arranged under the Heads of Heroic, Supernatural^ 
Historical, and Domestic Poems. 

The Second Volume will represent the Modern School of 
Danish Poetry, from the time of Tallin, giving the most re- 
markable lyrical productions of Ewald, Oehlenschlaeger, 
Baggesen, Ingemann, and many others. 

To England and to Denmark— nations formed by babit> 
education and position, for friendly and intimate interchange 
of thought and feeling — ^it is believed the proposed Collection 
will present many points of common interest. Each traces. 



the Same Author. 

its origin to the same great source ; each speaks a language 
whose affinities may be traced through numberless modifi- 
cations; and each still preserves those prominences of 
character, that quiet courage and intellectual sedateness 
mat perseverance in research, that unwillingness to unite 
and cordiality when united, which so remarkably distinguish 
Doth the Scandinavian and the Teutonic branches of the 
Crothic race. 

♦r.'^'xT^'^,®" hundred years have elapsed since certain men of 
the North first landed on the shores of Britain. They were 
tew amidst the many ; they began as the servants, they ended 
»y becoming the lords of those among whom they dwelt. The 
yielding Briton fled to the mountains of Cymrw ; the hardy 
feaxon possessed himself of the rich fields, the fertilizing 
streams, the forests and cities of England. 

For what Britain has become since that period, we refer to 
History. What she would have been but for those hardy 
iNorthern adventurers, who can say? To them, as far as in- 
quiry can trace the progress of intellect upon institutions, she 
owes her greatness and her ' glory. They were the stamina 
whose seed is gone forth to the ends of the earth, subduing 
and creating magnificent nations, and planting the Gothic 
family in every quarter of the globe. Wherever they have 
gone, they have carried civilization with them: wherever 
they have rested, they have laid the foundation of freedom 
and of happiness. 
Happily the period of hostile rivalry appears passing away. 
J /^'^^,°''y °^ by-gone centuries is not the history of friends 
and brethren. We have met in bloody bravery, to exchange 
hatred for hatred and injury for injury. We have been ren- 
dering to each other evil passions and evil deeds ; we who 
ought to have been refreshing and invigorating and excitino- 
one another by the interchange of high and holy thoughts o'f 
generous purposes, of warm aflfectious, of beneficent doings. 
1 he debt of justice is due from England to the North. Our 
men of science and of song have found their way over all 
bcandmavia, while Scandinavian genius has not received its 
merited welcome here. 

Much has been done in the North since the brethren parted 
and many a strain has been sung worthy of the voice of Fame 
and the place of honour ; but those strains have not been 

r 1 • ^-i ^^'*'*^- 7^. ™*''^ ^""^ ^PP«^^ ^^^'"st this neglect- 
tul indifference ; and with the best auxiliaries which zeal and 



( iv ) 

study can give us, we mil attempt to introduce into the halls 
of our country a train of brotherly and distinguished guests. 

It will be less our object to criticise the productions of the 
North than to point out these great sources of romantic poetry, 
in whose various currents so many of our illustrious bards 
have found inspiration. Others may track the influence of 
Scandinavian Sagas upon the ballads of England, and the 
minstrelsy of the Scottish border. But as far as our notes 
and illustrations can assist the right understanding of the 
original, they will be introduced. 

Subscribers nmnes will be received by Robert Hetvard, 
U3,Slrand. 



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